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Copyrighted, 1899. 






/ 



LAY SERMONS, 



BY HOWARD W/TILTON. 



(^QwJ 






t* 



24654 



"Some said, 'John, print it,' others said 'Not so,' 
Some said 'It mig-ht do good,' others said 'No.' " 

— BUNYAN. 



• £- 






PRESS OF 

NEW NONPAREIL CO. 

COUNCIL BLUFFS 



Y-i O THOSE kind friends in the great congregation of truth- 
seekers who have so kindly expressed their appreciation of 
the efforts of one "not of the cloth" to preach the gospel of happi- 
ness and helpfulness, and who by their words of encouragement 
have given to the lay preacher inspiration for his work, this little 
volume is affectionate^ tendered in compliance with their 
expressed desire to have some of these Lay Sermons in more 
permanent form than in the columns of "The Sunday Nonpareil," 
in which they have originally appeared from week to week, and 
with the hope that in complying with this friendly request other 
children of the great famil} r who look to the loving Father for 
strength and guidance ma3 r gather from these crumbs some food. 
HOWARD W. TILTON, 

Editor of "The Daily Nonpareil." 
Council Bluffs, Iowa. 



TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 



WANTED— A RELIGION, SUITABLE FOR 
all places and all persons; one which can be 
worn every day, will stand wear and tear, and 
that won't fade or shrink. Address. The Great 
World. 



Anybody can get all the religion he needs. Any- 
body needs all the religion he can get. Nobody knows 
how mnch religion he needs. Xobody knows how 
much religion he can get. 

If man is "a" mystery, his religion is "the" mys- 
tery. He can tell you to what church he belongs, but 
he stammers and stutters when you ask him to what 
religion he belongs, for he can't tell. He can recite his 
creed, but he can't recite his religion. His church has 
a steeple, his creed has words, but his religion has 
neither. 

Yet he is ever seeking to put a steeple to it taller 
than his neighbors'; is ever trying to crowd it into a 
prayer book, whose flexible binding, golden edges and 
delicate paper will excite the admiration of those in 
the next pew. But when in the shadowed recess of his 
own solitude he is alone with him in whose image he 



was created, the tall spire shrinks to that of the toy 
house, and the prayer book is as a picture book of 



8 TOMMY AND HIS TEACHEK. 

the nursery, and he then knows his religion is neither 
church nor creed. He cannot tell you what it is, but 
he feels his soul swinging between the mysteries of the 
finite and the infinite, as the censer of true worship, 
and from the rising incense he knows there is the truer 
religion of his life. 

A man can fool himself easier than he can fool the 
world. He can put fresh starch in his white tie, still 
more starch in his face, can stand before the glass of 
his own judgment and primp and putter until he deems 
himself most proper, but he cannot walk a block down 
the street of daily activity without the passers-by see- 
ing that it is only starch and primp, a mere make-up, 
the awkward playing of a part. When in the heated 
struggle that white tie becomes crumpled, when those 
proper pantaloons get the Sunday crease out of them, 
when the shine is off the shoes, and the high silk hat 
is laid aside for the greasy cap of the shop, his religion 
is gone, and the world knows it. One may fool him- 
self, but not his neighbor. That neighbor knows 
whether one's religion comes out of the clothes-press 
or out of the heart. 

The interest excited by Ian Maclaren's sermons in 
stories has caused much discussion of the Drum- 
tochty gospel which he preaches. He has gathered up 



TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. L J 

his belief and teaching in a creed which has met with 
endorsement of Jew and Gentile, and of all shades of 
theological belief, and yet has been attacked with the 
greatest bitterness by an equally varied opposition. It 
reads : 

"I believe in the Fatherhood of God. I believe 
in the words of Jesus. I believe in the clean heart. I 
believe in the service of love. I believe in the un- 
worldly life. I believe in the beatitudes. I promise 
to trust God and follow Christ, to forgive my enemies 
and to seek after the righteousness of God." 

Such is what has been given out as the "Life Creed," 
an attempt of the warmest love and the clearest thought 
of the age to put into words the expression of religious 
faith and life, and yet crowded as it is with humanitar- 
ianism, void as it is of theological technicalities, it is 
championed and opposed with a fierceness of struggle 
evincing a spirit which has anything in it but religion. 

Tommy was the worst schoolboy in one of the 
worst wards of the great city. His teacher was both 
discouraged and angered. She rushed him into the 
hall for the merited punishment. One, two, three 
stinging blows, and then there stole into the teach- 
er's heart the thought of the loveless home-life of that 
orphaned boy, and at the sight of his frail little body, 
that worn and faded jacket, the starving soul and the 



10 TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 

hungry heart, poor, ill-fed, unloved little fellow — what 
show had he had for his life? The raised hand 
dropped, and she burst into tears, turned her face from 
the sad picture of abused, misused humanity, and 
sobbed as though his grief was her own. The scowl 
disappeared from the dirty face, and there was more 
than the hint of a tear in the lad's great brown eyes, 
and as the teacher stood with turned face, leaning sob- 
bingly against the wall, she felt that grimy little hand 
tugging at her skirt and there was a bashful pleading: 

"Don't cry!" 

She turned to find that tears had taken the place 
of defiance in that boyish face, and she stooped and 
kissed those dirty checks, and threw her arms about 
the ragged form. 

She had found religion. He had found religion. 
What cared he, what cared she, whether it was worded 
according to the Apostles' creed or the Drumtochty 
gospel? What need of creed at all? 

That Christmas there was found on that teacher's 
desk a bit of cardboard with some pictures pasted on it. 
There was a smearing of flour-paste, there were fin- 
ger-marks, there was little art, but of all the gifts of 
that glad time it was the most precious, for it came 
from the best pupil in her school. It was more than 
a gift. It was Tommy's confession of faith, his sacra- 



TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 11 

mental vow, his holy orders, the proof that he had 
passed from death unto life. Only a dauby, home- 
made picture card? Ah, sometime when we are no 
longer blindly groping we shall look up and see a 
crown on that teacher's brow, and the brightest gem 
in the cluster the crystalizing of the love pictured so 
crudely in Tommy's crumpled, grimy card which lay 
on that teacher's desk at Christmas-time. 

How often we have to be taken into the hallway. 
We feel the blows. We grow defiant. Why cannot 
we see that the great Teacher is sobbing in sympathy 
at our orphanage, our waywardness? It is not until 
we hear the sobs, not until love drives defiance out of 
the heart, not until we reach out the pleading hand, 
not until we yield, that we feel the kiss of reconcilia- 
tion, the loving arms of protection, and know what 
religion is. 

Then we may seek to frame our creeds. We may 
cut out a picture here and one there. We may trim 
and paste, but at the best there will be finger-marks, 
there will be smearings — not much of a work of art. 
Better than nothing, though, for it is the best we can 
do. It isn't religion, though. 

Xo, religion is that unseen, unuttered, mysterious 
something, which changes Tommy from the worst to 
the best bov in the school. What if you can't tell what 



12 TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 

it is? You know what it does. That is enough. The 
picture card, crude as it is, is precious, but it is prec- 
ious only because of the daily faithfulness at the task, 
the willing obedience to duty, the loving enthusiasm 
of service — precious because it tells that both teacher 
and Tommy have the same religion, though they don't 
belong to the same church. 



THE GRAND OLD MAN. 



ki From toil he wins his spirit light, 
From busj T day the peaceful nig-ht/' 



Only a little picture which might have found its 
way into the waste basket together with the news- 
paper in which it was printed had not a sudden whim 
rescued it with a pair of scissors and stuck it up over 
the table of the busy worker. The art critic wouldn't 
have given it a second look, and would have seen in 
it no better use than to build a fire, but the busy 
worker saw in it the building of a better fire, one which 
would warm the heart instead of the body, one which 
would take the chill off of life not one day, but every 
day, and so it was pasted up, simple and crude, only 
a combination of black ink and cheap paper, and yet 
as full of inspiration as the vision of an angel. 

Only an old man, bending over his desk, sur- 
rounded by books and papers, the locks thin arid 
white, the brow knitted in thought deeper even than 
the wrinkles, the lips pursed with a determination 
which marks the heroic effort battling against physi- 
cal weakness, the old, old hand holding the old, old 



14 THE GRAND OLD MAN. 

pen and trying to write out the answer to the old, old 
problem. 

A grand old man. 

Yes, "the" grand old man. 

Still working away, though the clock had long 
since struck the allotted three-score years and ten and 
the hands were long past bedtime. Working for what? 
Honor? One of the greatest nations on earth had al- 
ready given him all that it had to give, and the whole 
world had clapped its hands and cheered until its voice 
was hoarse and his ear weary. Wealth? With a purse 
heavy enough to meet his every need, what cared he 
for more? Learning? With frosted head towering- 
above the scholars of earth, he dwelt beyond the 
clouds, and problems and philosophies which racked 
the brains of others w T ere to him as simple as the mul- 
tiplication table, and yet there was the same bending 
over the desk, the same wrinkling of the brow, the 
same pursing of the lips, the same holding of the pen, 
still working on, not for honor, not for wealth, not for 
learning, but for the love of the work. 

Nowadays, when there is such a rush and grab 
for a soft job, it is an inspiration to catch sight of the 
form of the grand old man hunting for a hard job. In 
the midst of the din and tumult, where is heard the re- 
peated cry of "Give me something easy," it is inspiring 



THE GRAND OLD MAX. 15 



to hear the clarion shout of the grand old man, "Give 
me something hard/' 

There is no hanging about the throne asking for 
jingling gew-gaws to be pinned to his breast because 
he was the son of his father. And so he became the 
grand old man. 



The dawdling young fellow whose only vision of 
life is bounded by toothpick toes and a high collar, 
who is ready to quit the struggle before he has begun 
it, ought to study the picture of the old man working 
on for the love of his work — study it until he has 
caught its inspiration and its secret. The picture is 
in many a home, not a scrap of paper rudely scissored 
out and hastily pasted up, but a living picture, throb- 
bing with love and earnestness, wrought in God's own 
studio, and despite the dust and the marring, one can 
still see the name of the divine artist if he will but 
look. Yet the hand of youth, fearing that its lily white- 
ness may be soiled and its linked cuffs rumpled, 
shrinks from the work which has made of the old man 
a grand old man, and he turns the picture to the wall. 

But to the weary worker the glimpse of such a 
picture framed in real life is like a quaff from the 
fountain of eternal joy and strength. Tired? Feel like 
quitting? Discouraged? Take a look at the picture 



16 THE GRAND OLD MAN. 

of the grand old man, and bend to the task again 
and you will find it easier. Soon you will begin to 
fall in love with your work. You will soon be wooing 
it, and then you will be winning it. 

Ah, you say, there is so little chance to win wealth, 
honor, learning. When the work is done and the tired 
head rests on the pillow no one will even notice that 
"He sleeps at last/' The wires will not quiver with 
grief, the bells will not toll, the worn garment will not 
be treasured in Westminster, then why work on? 
Look again at the picture of the grand old man and 
catch the inspiration of its teaching that the richest 
reward is the thrill which comes from w r orking for the 
love of the work. Bend over the face of the grand 
old man as he feels himself falling to sleep and catch 
his whispered — "No flowers." 



A BANG UP' DAY.' - 



•"Busted all my shootin" crackers. 

Shot off all my rockets, too: 
Roman candles, devil chasers. 

Burnt my face "ith powder — blue! 
Got a flnerer blistered orful. 

Got one eye closed, some old way, 
"X my hair is all swinged off me — 

But I had a bang up day!*" 



The homeliest poets often tell the greatest truths. 
Those famous friends of the muses who sit among the 
clouds and sing to us of the heavens do not get near 
enough to earth to see what is going on and so it 
takes some clumsy rhymester, who is shuffling about 
in the dusty highways where the common folks are 
sweltering and struggling, to chant the real psalm of 
real life. 

"But I had a 'bang up 5 day." 

That was about all the boy got out of the Fourth 
of July. At least he thought so then, and although he 
has now become a gray-haired man, perhaps he thinks 
so still, but as Ave looked at him the other night stand- 
ing in the crowd listening to the Marine band playing 
"The Star Spangled Banner," we fancied he got more 



18 "a 'bang up' day." 

out of that Fourth of July so long ago than he knew 
then,, or realizes now. As he stood with uncovered 
head, listening to the old, old tune, and watching the 
great flag as it was suddenly unfurled from the top of 
the band stand when the music struck up, and while 
the crowd was yelling itself hoarse, and fair hands 
were waving handkerchiefs, we saw him glance up at 
the old colors, and then wipe away the tears. 

Weak and silly? The little button which he wore 
in the lapel of his coat gave the lie to such a thought, 
for it told the story of four years of such heroism as 
the world had never seen before, and which the world 
will never cease to honor. The little button spoke of 
fearless facing of shot and shell, of weary marches, of 
starlit sleeping on the hard ground, of hunger and 
thirst, of wounds and of pains, of the longing for home, 
and all borne like a Spartan — no, the little button gave 
proof that there was no weakness nor silliness in the 
hand that wiped away the tear as the old flag was un- 
furled and the band struck up the old tune. One would 
hardly recognize in him the boy who so many years 
ago fancied that all there was in a Fourth of July was 
a hurrah and an explosion and whose recollection of 
the celebration all crowded into the thought — 

"But I had a 'bang up' day." 



"A 'bang up 1 day." 19 

The fellow who figures on the amount of gun- 
powder wasted and the human misery caused by what 
seems to him a needless celebration of the Fourth is 
always on earth. When he isn't figuring on this his 
pencil is busy proving that more money is spent for 
chewing gum every year than for missions, and that 
the fizz of the soda fountain would pay off the national 
debt. He is an adept in figuring out losses, but when 
it comes to profits the point breaks off his pencil and 
his slate is cracked. There are no tables of weights 
and measures in his arithmetic by which he can tell 
how T far the flutter of a flag reaches, how fast the sound 
of a firecracker travels, nor what the distance is be- 
tween the gray-haired veteran who stands listening to 
the old tune, looking at the old flag and wiping away 
the tear, and the patriotic little urchin who forgets his 
burns and blisters in the thought — 

"But I had a 'bang up' day." 

Is the money spent for fireworks a mere waste? 

Yes, if all there is to life is to make money and 
save it. If this is to be the rule of action, then let there 
be bare floors in the home, let there be no toys in 
the nursery, no music at the fireside, no pictures on the 
wall, no flowers in the vase, no ring on the finger; 
smash the stained windows of the cathedral, hush the 
chimes of bells, pull down the cross on the spire, and 



20 fc% A 'bang up' day." 

let us huddle in a wigwam and grind our food with a 
stone. 

Isn't it well once in a while to stop and listen to 
the sweet music of that voice which spoke as never 
man spoke, and to learn the simple wisdom that we 
are not to live by bread alone? Plighted love might 
be just as true, and the union of the two hearts just 
as close, even if the wine for the feast was wanting, 
but the Master recognized the desire and so he smiled 
upon the water, causing it to blush. When he gath- 
ered about him the few and bid them "as often as ye 
do this do it in remembrance of me;' he saw in the com- 
ing years that the few would be the many, and by 
symbols and ceremonies their hearts would be made 
to beat quicker and their memories to paint more vivid 
pictures. The simple blossom pinned to the lapel, the 
little golden curl laid away in the drawer, the ring 
slipped on the finger, the flag fluttering above the roof, 
the cross surmounting the spire, each has its mission, 
each whispers memories of the past, and inspires 
hopes for the future. 

A waste of money? 

Influences cannot be weighed in the scales. Life 
cannot be expressed in dollars and cents. Manhood 
cannot be measured by the yardstick. The hand 



"a 'bang up' day." 21 

which today plays with the firecracker may 
tomorrow hold the sword. The voice which today 
yells with boyish delight may tomorrow ring out 
the inspiring command of a leader. There is more 
to the noisy celebration than the noise. The few dimes 
spent for firecrackers are not wasted. They are 
dropped into the great treasure house from which 
patriotism may draw at will its wealth of inspiration 
and of strength when the need shall come. 



THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 

WANTED— A FAMILY BIBLE: NO RE- 
vised edition, Woman's Bible or any other 
new fang-led kind need apply. Address, The 
Great World. . 

"I wouldn't take $1,000 for that old family Bible." 
As he sat in the home corner he didn't seem like the 
same stern-faced, quick-spoken man of the world, 
whom you had watched tearing open telegrams, dic- 
tating to his stenographer, sharply bidding one to go, 
another to come, too busy to relight the half-burned 
cigar with which his lips were nervously playing — no, 
he didn't seem the same, lounging in his library chair 
as when at his desk, but he was. 

If you want to see the real man you must wait 
until he hangs up his business coat and puts on his 
smoking jacket. 

This man wasn't a preacher, nor a deacon, and not 
even a church member, and yet — 

"I wouldn't take $1,000 for that old family Bible. " 

Why did this man of the world want a family 
Bible? 

As memory turned back the pages he didn't need to 
put on his glasses to note the dotting of every "i" and 



THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 26 

the crossing, of every "t" of the family record, for he 
could read much more than was written on that page 
of "Births'' and which contained the names of twelve. 
He was again living in the days when motherhood 
was still in fashion and when fatherhood counted its 
wealth by the number of its children. 

As he shifted the old book to the other knee the 
rheumatic twinge told him that many years had passed 
since, as the baby of the twelve, that knee had bent so 
nimbly and thoughtlessly in the family prayer service. 
That old family Bible then rested on another and 
worthier knee, while mother leaned lovingly over the 
page to read with father, and each in the loving circle 
in turn read a verse from one of the twelve smaller 
Bibles which at the close of the service were carefully 
piled on top of the old family Bible to await the next 
call of the angelus. 

He had learned his very letters from the same old 
book, as they were pointed out to him by father's 
horn-handled knife, which often tempted his boyish 
envy to gaze more upon its wonders than upon the 
teachings of holy writ. He little thought then that 
the opening of the family Bible was the opening of the 
door for him to enter into the world's great parliament 
of religion and into the library of all ages. 



24 THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 

There was a good-bye, and even the old door 
seemed to add a sad creak to the household lament as 
the eldest son stepped out into the world, and though he 
left his little Bible piled up with the others on top 
of the big family one, who knows how much of it he 
took with him? Only God and the angels. Then the 
others followed, one by one, until there came the first 
of the many lonesome hours when the wrinkled hands 
lifted tenderly one after another of the twelve little 
books from off the old family Bible and two gray 
heads bent lovingly together over its open pages, and 
two bent forms bow r ed to ask a blessing on the absent 
ones. Then the old family Bible was put in its place, 
and the tw T elve little ones were piled up upon it, each 
serving as a reminder of a dear one, for there were 
the marks on the covers of little teeth which at prayer 
time had found more entertainment in nibbling than 
in devotion, and there were the boyish scrawlings of 
names upon the fly leaves, and the marks of dirty 
fingers on the pages. The long years seemed shorter, 
the absent ones seemed nearer, the visits more frequent 
because of the daily touch of the twelve little Bibles 
no longer needed in the family prayer circle which had 
narrowed to the two who found all their wants sup- 
plied in the pages of the old book. 

Then as this man of the world turned the leaf, 



THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 25 

some of the ashes from his cigar dropped upon the 
page, and he hurriedly brushed them away, and yet 
why not let them stay? ''Deaths" — how the list had 
grown, and whose name shall be next written? How 
well he remembers the sad family reunion when those 
still living sought to comfort father while those who 
had gone before were welcoming mother. As they 
stepped from the carriages and for the first time 
entered into the silent gloom of a home without a 
mother, how brave father tried to be as he lifted off 
one after another of the little books and then opening 
their old family Bible made the sad record of his grief, 
and then turning to him, no longer the baby boy of 
the household, said: 

"My son, I fear that you will have to write the next 
record in the old family Bible.'' 

And so he had, and the old home was gone. 

Doesn't the busy man of the world need the old 
family Bible to link memories with hopes, and isn't he 
all the better for their gentle whisperings to the angel 
of his better self? If he was going to buy a new Bible 
he wouldn't get one like this for the binding is old- 
fashioned, the paper not of the best, and there are not 
the maps and side notes and indexes and tables and 
all those essentials to the modern Bible, and yet the 
latest Oxford with its flexible cover and its delicate 



26 THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 

rice paper could never take the place of the old family 
Bible. The modern church, the higher criticism, the 
new creed, are all well enough, but there are sacred 
ties still binding to the past, which cannot be ruth- 
lessly snapped. Like the old family Bible, we may lay 
the old creed reverently on the shelf, and place with 
it the theological notions for which we have no further 
use, like the twelve little Bibles, to serve simply as 
memorials, yet still they are too sacred to be thrown 
into the furnace room. 

We have learned to read better than when we 
stumbled over letters pointed out by father's horn- 
handled knife, but there are the same great truths to 
spell out, and there is the same recording of births 
and deaths, and the same strange questioning as to 
whose name shall next be penned and by whom? 

And there's ever the need of the old familv Bible. 



THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 

'•If I should die before I wake. 
I pray the Lord my soul to take." 

Then the tired little head snuggles down into the 
pillow and thinks of the lump of sugar sneaked from 
the table and the raisins filched from the cupboard, 
the whisper in school, and all the other hideous crimes 
of the day, and the curtains of night are not thick 
enough nor drawn close enough to shut out the 
thought of fear lest death is lurking in the darkness. 
The poor little sinner trembles at the bar of a guilty 
conscience until tired nature, which is the tenderest 
of mothers, touches the long lashes with its gentle 
hand and whispers to the troubled little soul, "Peace, 
be still." 

The little trundle-bed prayer seems almost too 
sacred to be touched by the critic, for it brings back 
father's kindly good-night and mother's loving kiss, 
and one feels that it should be handled with as gentle 
reverence as the lock of hair folded in the old yellow 
letter which brings back the sacred love whispered in 
the moonlight so long ago. But after all, the prayer 
is man-made, and not God-made, like that other famil- 



28 THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 

iar prayer given by the elder brother, who, gathering 
about him all the children of the great family, taught 
them to say "Our Father." Blundering man would 
have said "Our King" and would have prayed for 
dying grace instead of living grace. The man-made 
prayer is for night when the curtains are drawn, with 
the somber thought, 

"If I should die before I wake." 

The God-made prayer causes the fingers of love to 
pull aside the draperies of gloom that fear may flee 
w r ith the shadows of the departing night, as the in- 
pouring sunshine of hope causes the heart to ask the 
Father to "give us this day our daily bread." 

It is human to fear. It is divine to hope, so being 
human we go all the w r ay from the trundle-bed to the 
tomb with a trembling step. We people the air with 
microbes and freight the breezes witn infection. We 
are constantly warning the children against eating this 
or that and we lean over the fence every morning to 
exchange symptoms and ailments with the neighbors. 
Physically, mentally and morally we are always warn- 
ing instead of winning. We are forever picturing 
bogies instead of fairies. We string danger signals 
all along the roadway and are forever tooting the ter- 
rifying whistle and the journey is one of constant 
anxiety. We are ever in the shadow wondering, 



THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 29 

"If I should die before I wake," 
instead of hopefully looking into the loving face of the 
Father and asking, 

"Give us this day our daily bread/' 



We warn the rollicking boy that he is going to the 
bad instead of winning him to go to tne good. We 
sneer at the story of George Washington and his 
hatchet and yet it has done more to inspire truthful- 
ness than the story of Ananias. The fear of the bears 
rushing out to eat up little children who do not show 
proper respect to the bald-headed prophet has never 
caused such true respect to be shown to one's elders 
and superiors as the manifestation of such true merit 
as wins respect even when no bears are in sight. 

Did you ever try walking for the sake of health? 
You start out with no special place in view, no mission 
to perform, no purpose to accomplish, but simply to 
keep from being sick, and every block seems the 
length of two and your heart is soon as heavy as your 
feet. But when you are hurrying to catch the smile 
of a loving face, the distance to a trystmg place is cov- 
ered by light feet to which the heart of joy gives wings, 
and healthy, happy exercise gives beauty to age and 
changes wrinkles to dimples. 



30 THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 

The sight of a narrow chest and the sound of a 
hectic cough do not drive the lad to play foot ball. 
The charm of the healthy, happy flush of triumph, the 
music of the boisterous but victorious yell, the v%or 
of brawn, the flash of eye, the hurrah, the battle won, 
pride of achievement, all these win him to the field of 
helpful activity when the warnings of frailty, the feeble 
footstep, the wheezy breath, the pinched face would be 
all in vain. 

If the kindergarten training does nothing more for 
the world than to emphasize the superiority of winning 
over warning it has accomplished a needed mission. 
The rod may not be spared, but it is, after all, the lov- 
ing hand which leads more easily than the rod can 
drive. The artist gathers inspiration for his touch by 
gazing upon a rainbow 7 instead of a crazy-quilt. One 
may gain language by studying the demerits of the 
stump speaker that he may avoid them, but far more 
by studying the merits of the true orator that he may 
imitate them. The pen which sets the copy in the 
writing book should do it gracefully, that beauty may 
be patterned after, rather than blunderingly, that de- 
formity may be avoided. 

Poor, wabbling humanity, when it succeeds in 
climbing up the mountain side and seeks to speak to 



THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 31 

its fellows, opens its mouth and teaches them, saying: 
"Cursed are the impure in heart; for they shall not 

see God/' 

But the Great Teacher had greater wisdom and 

tenderer love and he wooed the heart of the world and 

won it with the promise : 

"Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see 

God." 

When shall we who seek to teach at fireside and in 
forum, learn how to teach? 

Are we to be forever spending our time wandering 
through the marshes repainting the signs, "No bot- 
tom here/' or shall we fill the king's highway with 
such enticing music and sunshiny companionship that 
we shall woo instead of warn and be drawn instead of 
be driven? 

As we go to the Father to tell him our mistakes 
and to show him our needs, shall w T e tremblingly bury 
our heads in the darkness with the shivering thought — 

"If I should die before I wake?'' 
or shall we look hopefully out- upon the dawning light 
of a sunshiny day and confidentlyask — 

"Give us this dav our dailv bread." 



ROSES AND THORNS. 



••Men grumble because God put thorns on roses. 
Wouldn't it be better to thank God that he put 
roses on thorns?" 



The one who wrote that text got $500 for it, that 
being the prize offered by Evangelist Moody for the 
"best thougfit" in a competition. Anyone who will 
preach the right kind of a sermon from that text can 
get more than $500 — not a sermon delivered from the 
pulpit — not one either spoken or written — for such 
sermons are easy to preach and are often worth but 
little after they have been preached. No, the sermon 
which one must preach from that text in order to win 
the big prize must be one which needs no louder voice 
than that of a heart-throb, no language but that of a 
smile, no schooling but that of love, no listeners save 
the stars, no pulpit but God's footstool. 

A pretty sentiment, you say? Yes, not only pretty, 
but practical. No sentiment is really pretty that isn't 
practical. The rose has its mission as truly as the 
thorn, but we turn from the beauty and fragrance of 
the one to give thought to the discomfort and pain of 



ROSES OX THORNS. 33 

the other. The flower smiles with cheery greeting and 
we scowl back because the thumb has been pricked. 
We think more of the bandage than of the bouton- 
niere, more of the pain than the joy, and are forever 
reminding ourselves that there is no rose without a 
thorn, and never think that there is no thorn without 
a rose. 

We are forever on the search for happiness, and 
yet we search in such a way that we are forever find- 
ing anything but happiness. We think of the thorn 
too much and of the rose too little. The rain breaks 
ap the picnic and spoils the races and we grunt and 
grumble without a thought of how the thirsty earth is 
joyously drinking it in that its parched lips may again 
smile with the joy of harvest. We grumble because 
the head tosses on a restless pillow and forget how soft 
and cuddling that pillow is and how sweet it is to be 
under the protecting shelter of home, with the hand 
of love ready to respond to the softest whisper of need. 
We worry because of the waywardness of that boy and 
wonder whether he will ever be a comfort to old age 
and forget that he is a comfort now, with all of his 
awkward, rollicking ways, and that if he should go 
out. of the home there would be heartache in the wait- 
ing and listening for the returning footstep never to 
be heard again. But no, there's the mud he has care- 



34 ROSES ON THORNS. 

lessly tracked in, and he's so noisy, and he is late to 
his meals, and forgets the chores, and — we see only the 
thorns, and make ourselves unhappy and him, too. 

We ruin our digestion by watching every mouthful 
to see if it isn't going to cause us trouble. We greet 
our friends in the morning with an inquiry as to their 
aches and ailments and part with them at night with 
a hope that they will be able to sleep well, expressed as 
though it was hoping against hope. The invigorating 
approach of winter causes one to think only of the 
shivering and not of the glowing, and the resurrection 
of spring is robbed of its charms in the thought of that 
tired feeling. We forget that God's roses bloom in 
all seasons and breathe forth their fragrance in the 
darkness as well as in the light. 

The glories of the victory are forgotten as we figure 
up the cost. The sight of the wan face and the empty 
sleeve causes the welcoming love to forget to thank 
God that the lips are still warm and the heart still 
beats. We would be so much happier if we would but 
press in the book of remembrance the rose leaf, that 
as the pages are turned it might remind us of the bless- 
ing of its beauty and cause us to forget the pain of its 
thorn. 



ROSES OX THORXS. OO 

One can carry so much more sunshine clown the 
street by pointing to the rose in the buttonhole instead 
of to the thorn in the thumb. Even your friend does 
not care to see that sore thumb but once, but he will 
look again and again at your rose, and smile each time 
it smiles at him. The world wants more bonbons and 
fewer bandages, more shouts and fewer sighs, mere 
laughter and less lamentation, and the heart which can 
thus gather and give cheer is the one which thanks the 
Father for putting roses on thorns. 

The church which has such a creed will woo and 
win the world to helpfulness and happiness. The great 
congregation of humanity is tired of the preacher, as 
well as of the politician, who never opens his mouth 
without declaring: "We view with alarm." The ear 
is weary listening to those who have only apologies 
and explanations to offer because God moves in such 
a mysterious way and because he sends such tribula- 
tions and trials to his children. There is a longing of 
the heart to see the rose leaves scattered through the 
pages of life, to breathe in the fragrance of blessing, 
to forget the thorn and think of the flower. The world 
has tired of the picturings of punishment, and needs 
to be cheered by the promises of reward. It would 
be so much happier, if instead of having only one 
thanksgiving day in the year and 364 days of grum- 



36 ROSES OX THORNS. 

bling, it could make every day one of thanking God 
for putting roses on thorns and none for complaining 
because God put thorns on roses. 

It is all wrong to prize the music most after it is 
hushed, to love the face most after it has vanished, to 
cherish the flower most after it is faded. The Father 
loves to have his children happy while the harmony is 
still thrilling the air, while the smile is still on the face, 
and the beauty still on the blossom. That child of his 
who by happy living can thus preach to his fellows a 
daily sermon can win a greater prize for himself and 
for the world than the one who wrote the text. He 
cannot rid the world of thorns, but he can cause hearts 
to forget their aches, smiles to chase away tears, sun- 
shine to drive shadow from the pathway, and in thus 
doing he will be doing the work of the Father who 
lovingly placed roses on thorns. 



BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 



"Remember that 3-011 are raising- 3-our ben' to 
be some woman's husband." ' 



The motto which a western woman's club has on 
its wall should be placed in living letters over every 
fireside. In almost every old storeroom and garret 
there may be found the faded and frayed crocheting 
of the old motto, "God Bless Our Home." It long 
since served its purpose, and yet it seemed almost 
sacrilegious to throw it on the rubbish pile, and so 
it has been given a place beside the old hair trunk, 
containing the yellow letters and the ambrotypes, 
baby's first shoes and the little faded frock of the one 
whose laughter is now only an echo. The old motto 
belongs among the things which we still keep simply 
to remind us of what we have outgrown and what we 
have lost. It is well that the broader religion of today 
should revise the old time saying of grace by which 
the blessing was asked for "me and my wife, my son 
John and his wife," and that the old motto should be 
laid aside and that there should be put in the place of 

"God bless our home," 

"God bless another home." 



38 BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 

It is well that the text should be found in a 
woman's heart and the sermon preached by a woman's 
life. None knows better than the mother what sort of 
a man her boy must be in order to be a worthy hus- 
band of some other woman. She knows how provok- 
ing it is to have the mud tracked in, the newspapers 
thrown on the floor, and the cigar ashes scattered on 
the dresser cover. She has waited meals and heard 
the grumbling at the breakfast table, and she knows 
just what sort of an ideal husband she would like to 
have, and just what sort of a man her boy should be 
in order to be the ideal husband for some other woman. 
But there are many things which that boy needs to be 
taught besides wiping his feet on the rug, and being 
on time to his meals, and they can be taught by a 
woman only, for only a woman knows. She remem- 
bers when in the long ago she timidly placed her fin- 
gers in the strong and loving hand of him to whom 
in all the coming years .she was to look for care and 
protection. Those were days of moonlight and music, 
and the world seemed a fairy land in which her lover 
was the chivalrous knight. That strong hand was 
always then extended in thoughtful gentleness to place 
the wrap about her shoulders, to assist her into the 
carriage, to hold the umbrella, get a cooling drink, to 
pick up her fan and provide her with caramels, and 
yet he loves her more even than he did then, would 



BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 6 L J 

sacrifice more for her, would do more for her — but 
he doesn't think of the wrap, the carriage, the glass of 
water, the fan, and the caramels. He doesn't realize 
how much these things mean to a woman, not because 
of the things themselves, for she can throw on her own 
wrap, pick up her own fan, get her own glass of water 
and buy her own caramels, but the thoughtfulness is 
what she misses, for the smaller the service the greater 
seems the thoughtfulness which inspires it. Life has 
become so hum-drum. There are no more of those 
cosy little visits in the shadows of the vine, and love 
no longer is a duet but a solo. It's shop and kitchen, 
and the clock is always striking the hour to go to 
work or the hour to go to sleep. There's no more time 
for dawdling with the flowers and caramels of life. 
Courtesy seems well enough for lovers, but with old 
married people everything is business. The little foxes 
go on with their destroying of the vines unnoticed, 
and soon there is nothing but the bare trellis, its charm 
gone, and there are none of the old enticements for the 
cosy whisperings of confidences and the interchang- 
ing of little experiences of the day — so trifling — so un- 
important — yet which make up so much of the life of 
the busy wife and weary mother. 



The work of raising a boy to be some other 
woman's husband will not succeed very well until the 



40 BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 

mother of that boy learns the secret of how to control 
the husband who was raised for her. In the home 
where everything is left for father to decide, where 
the paternal rod is ever kept in pickle, and the boy is 
forever being threatened with "Just wait until your 
father comes home/' where mother's wishes are ig- 
nored, and she is looked upon as too feeble to think 
and too weak to act, because she is only a woman, 
where the only thought of the cape is to place it upon 
the shoulders of a visitor, and the only picking up of 
the fan is when it is dropped by a stranger, the boy 
who is being raised for some other woman's husband 
will be much the kind of a husband which his father 
has been. He may see that the grocery bills are paid, 
that the roof doesn't leak, and that the lawn is mowed, 
but there will be the same old feeling that because he 
holds the purse and runs the store that he is the head 
of the house, and everything must first pay tribute to 
him, and it is for him to do all the thinking for the 
family and let the wife do all the washing. 

It isn't altogether the fault of the husband that he 
fails to be the ideal which would prove so helpful an 
example in the raising of that boy to be the husband 
of some other woman. He doesn't realize how much 
the heart of the tired little housewife misses the twi- 
light visit about the seeming nothings, how she looks 



BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 41 

back with a sigh to the evenings when he alone was 
company enough, and one other would have made it 
too crowded, how she misses the compliment and the 
smile, and how as she sits alone on the porch and sees 
her boy starting out for the lake with the sweetest of 
summer girls, and hears their merry laughter and 
chatter, happy in the blowing of the bright bubbles 
of life, she thinks of the white dress, now yellowed 
with age, the straw hat, the lover's knot of whose band 
was long since loosened, and how she wishes and won- 
ders. Alan is so clumsy and so thoughtless that he 
doesn't realize that it makes such a difference to her 
whether he goes up town after supper, and he would 
be as surprised to find that she would like to have him 
take her to the lake,' as he would be to find himself 
going there. 

His fault, you say? If she hadn't taken the little 
attentions so much for granted, if she had been as 
quick to reward him with a loving smile and a sweet 
word for his picking up of the fan dropped after mar- 
riage as in courtship, he might have noticed now that 
she has dropped it again. Had she shown as much 
surprise and pleasure at his thoughtfulness of the flow- 
ers which he had gathered for her from the dusty 
street and stuffy office in which he had been so busy 
and so weary, as of those brought from the green- 



42 BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 

houses of the clays of romance and of youth, he might 
have kept on bringing flowers. 

''Remember that you are raising your boy to be 
some woman's husband." 

Yes, but remember that in doing so there must be 
first the teaching of the teacher. The home of the 
boy must be filled with the sunshine of love, there 
must be the purity of influence, the enticement of 
charming example, the close entwining of the affec- 
tions of father and mother, the constant holding up 
before that boy's eyes the mirror in which his love 
can see the ideal husband which he is to make when 
he takes that little maiden in white to his home instead 
of to the lake. 



ONLY A BUD. 



WANTED— A LITTLE GIRL TO GATHER 
and scatter sunshine: must be useful as well 
as ornamental. Address in vour own smile. The 
Great World. 



Of all those flowers in mother's hand, that little 
bud is the sweetest, and so she tenderly pins it in 
father's buttonhole as he starts out for another day's 
battling for home and love. Into the smoke of the 
shop and the dust of the mart he carries it with him 
as a cheer and an inspiration. Ah, the heart is more 
than the coat which covers it, but has it a bud pinned 
to it? It needs it more than the coat. Wanted — a lit- 
tle girl. 

Father needs her for his home-coming. He brings 
home to loving wife the burden of care which he has 
gathered during the day, and what has wife to offer 
in exchange? Only another burden of care which she 
has gathered from nursery and kitchen. He brings 
home, too, some picture cards for little darling, and 
what has she to offer in exchange? Picture for pic- 
ture, brightness for brightness. In the busiest hour 
of the day he had happened to glance from the bud 



44 ONLY A BUD. 

pinned on the lapel to that resting on the heart be- 
neath, and instead of throwing those advertising cards 
into the waste-basket, he had carefully placed them 
in the pocket of his shaggy coat, smiling as he thought 
of how that little hand would with its eager expect- 
ancy make its usual search of what she had long since 
learned was to her a treasure house in which love had 
always something for her. Some of the investments 
of the day had gone wrong. Some of his work and 
his worry had been wasted. But the investment in 
those advertising cards paid a thousand per cent, and 
paid it in the golden coin of the realm of heaven. 

That little bud was pinned to his heart with a good- 
bye kiss in the morning, and as from time to time dur- 
ing the noisy hours he had glanced down at it he had 
worked more and sinned less because of it. He never 
stopped, perhaps, to think what that bud meant to him, 
but just as w r hen the coat bears a boutonniere one feels 
rebuked at letting the dust gather, or the spots remain, 
and hastens to brush off the one and sponge off the 
other, so he who wears a bud on his heart is a little 
more careful to avoid the dust and the spots. The bud 
is a rebuke, and one feels ashamed. 

God pity the man who has no such bud pinned to 
his heart. 



ONLY A BUD. 45 

Mother needs that little girl as much as she needs 
a hand-glass. There is a more faithful reflection of 
her every smile and frown. Mother did not realize 
how fretty she was getting, didn't notice how sharp 
she scolded, until she heard that little voice in like 
word and like tone trying to regulate the domestic 
affairs of her play-house. Mother didn't think how- 
she had got into the habit of constant whining until 
in a few minutes' rest in the rocking chair she over- 
heard that mimic mother confiding her imaginary 
aches and pains to her own doll-child. 

Mother spoke harshly and thoughtlessly of her 
neighbor, and when the innocent prattler faithfully re- 
peated what she oughtn't to, and friendship no longer 
run in by the back door, mother was provoked at the 
glib little tongue which had caused all this trouble, 
but her truer self whispered the truth that it was better 
not only to always speak kindly, but to think kindly, 
of others. She felt the rebuke voiced by innocence, 
and became a better woman. 

God pity the woman who has no such little hand- 
glass. 

Mother needs that little girl just as one needs a 
pupil in order to become himself the better scholar. 
Xo hand ever touched a flower in loving care without 
becoming itself the more graceful. Xo mother ever 



46 ONLY A BUD. 

lifted a little soul that it might take hold of the ideal 
without hearing the whispering of, "Be ye also per- 
fect/' The boy gets close to mother's heart. Ihe girl 
stays close to it. There is that peculiar intimacy 
which begins with the first learning of the over-hand 
stitch, and which lasts until young womanhood blush- 
ingly stammers the secret of another heart and another 
home, and mother sees that she has lost her little girl. 
God pity the mother who has no such pupil, no 
such flower. 

The boy needs that little girl. He will tease her, 
of course — tease her until the grief of her little heart 
tells itself in the tear — just as the cruel wound causes 
the forming of the pearl, and yet he doesn't mean to 
hurt her. If any other boy had made her cry he would 
have pounded him. He feels ashamed of himself, 
and when a boy feels ashamed of his unman- 
liness, he becomes a better boy. He pooh-poohs at 
her because she's only a girl, but it is just as he pooh- 
poohs at the flowers, which he puts in mother's hand, 
and yet in his heart he really feels that they are the 
sweetest things on earth. He gets that little girl to 
playing such rough games that mother is shocked, 
but if he teaches her to climb the fence, she teaches 
him where to find the daisv, and the boy needs the 
flower as much as she needs the climb. If he gets 



ONLY A BUD. 47 

her to yell "Hello" like a boy, she teaches him to say 
"Please" like a girl, and he needs the "Please" as 
much as she needs the "Hello." It is the holy wed- 
lock of the trellis and the vine of childhood, and whom 
God hath thus joined together let no man put asunder. 
God pity the boyish trellis which has no such vine. 

That little girl should be more, though, than a 
pretty boutonniere, a dazzling hand-glass or a grace- 
ful vine. The world wants usefulness as well as orna- 
mentation. The arch flung across the lofty ceiling 
of life's cathedral may seem like the lace-weaving 
of the fairies, but God's holy temple needs its strength 
more than its beauty. That little girl's hand should be 
skilled in the womanly ornamentation of music and 
art, but no less skilled in that womanly usefulness 
which makes the kitchen as sunshiny as the parlor. 
She should be taught to serve as well as to be served. 
In the coming years she will need the strength which 
she gained in climbing the fence. That needle will no 
longer find amusement in doll clothes, but will be 
needed for the work on which tears may fall. The 
feet which glide through the graces of the waltz may 
needs weary in ministration. Let the fingers now 
frolic with the joyful melodies, let the play-house now 
be the whole world, let the feet now move in the ryth- 
mic gladness of today, but let these be only the orna- 



48 ONLY A BUD. 

mentation of that strength which will be so needed 
on the morrow when the minor chord is touched, when 
the world is no longer a play-house, and when the feet 
press where the path is rugged. 

Then the little girl must needs be a little woman. 

Tomorrow will need the strength gained yester- 
day. 

The world wants such a little girl today as will be 
such a little woman tomorrow. 



"WHEN WE HAVE COMPANY." 

The late Bill X3~e was fond of telling - about a 
party of guests who were at his dinner table, and 
whom he was doing- his best to entertain, when 
one of the compan\-, turning to his little girl, 
remarked: 
"Your father is a very funny man." 
"Yes," responded the child, "when we have 
compan3 T ." 

What was only a joke about the Nye household 
is no joke about many other households. 

'''When we have company." 

What a change there is then in the atmosphere 
of the home. Even the little tot says "Please,'' and 
the young ruffian, who prides himself on being "one of 
the kids," sits as meek as a cherub and sweetly an- 
swers, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," instead of exploding 
his usual "Yep" and drawling out his usual "Naw." 
You wonder why these little hypocrites cannot have 
their company manners on all the time. Perhaps they 
would if you kept yours on all the time, but so long as 
you put them on and off. as you do your company 
clothes, you can't blame them. 

"When we have company." 

Yes, there are flowers on the table and clean nap- 



50 "when we have company." 

kins. But when we're all alone, "we won't bother to 
change the plates this noon," and "just use the same 
spoon/' We fancy that we are making it as easy as 
possible, when in trying to save a little time and a little 
water we are in fact making life harder. It is all well 
enough to save one's best dishes and one's best clothes 
for company, but one ought not to save his best man- 
ners for company. 

In fact, one ought to have two sets of dishes and 
two suits of clothes, but no one ought to have more 
than one set of manners, and tnese should be used and 
worn just the same "when we have company" and 
wdien "it's only our own folks." Because the guest 
should be given a clean napkin there is no reason for 
giving our own a filthy one. Cleanliness gets as near 
to godliness in the kitchen as in the parlor, and there 
should be as careful manicuring for the cook table as 
for the piano. There are birthdays which are as worthy 
of being greeted by the happy faces of the flow r ers on 
the table, as the feast days when the invited guests 
gather to the banquet. There may be in the simple lit- 
tle vase only a few blossoms gathered from one's own 
humble flowerbed, but they will breathe sweeter fra- 
grance of loving thoughtfulness, will give more grace- 
ful language to tender memories, and will chase care 
from the tired face with a sweeter smile, than the great 



"when we have company." 51 

banks of costly exotics which grace the welcome 
given — 

"When we have company." 

The old parlor, with its stiff chairs, its haircloth 
sofa, its closed windows, and the old whatnot, the con- 
stant cause of worry on the part of the good house- 
wife, and of commingled curiosity and terror on the 
part of the children, has now been thrown open to the 
sunlight and the air, which have merrily chased away 
the shadows and flung brighter colors across the car- 
pet and upholstery, and there is the music of a child's 
laugh, and the rustling of father's newspaper, and it 
has become a part of home. When the bell rings and 
the guest is welcomed there is no longer the stately 
entering in to a stuffy sepulchre, where all hope and 
heart seem long since buried, but the exchange of 
smiling greetings, for it is now a living room and there 
is no longer the throwing open of the parlor, but the 
throwing open of the home — 

"When we have company." 

The hero of Manila is said to have twenty-eight 
suits of clothes, and yet it matters not which he puts 
on, he is the same Dewey. Beneath the negligee as 
he stands in the lawn tennis field, beneath the laun- 
dered mirror of his evening dress, as he sits at the ban- 



52 

quet, and beneath the blue uniform as he stands amid 
the smoke and shell, there beats the same heart and 
its throbbings are of the same true manliness. Smaller 
men change their feelings with their clothes and their 
moods with their surroundings. They lay aside their 
smiles with their shoes and put on their scowls with 
their slippers. They snarl at the breakfast table and 
smirk at the banquet. They make home hell when 
there's "nobody but our own folks," and make it 
heaven — 

"When we have company." 

It has been said that no man gets well enough 
acquainted with his wife to tell what she will say 
after the company has gone. He never knows what 
he has done and what he has left undone until he is 
brought before the judgment bar of her mirror. Both 
have been playing a part, have been trying to put on 
company manners, and manlike he, of course, is the 
one who has been awkward and clumsy, and manlike 
has been so stupid that he has to be told his mistakes, 
and to be given a new lesson as to how he should do 
the next time — 

"When we have company." 

If there was more of the real and less of the put-on; 
if men sought to be honest as well as polite; if women 



•'when we have company." 53 

tried to be genuine as well as graceful; if there was the 
realization that slang in the woodshed is as bad as 
slang in the parlor; If "thank you" and "please" 
were heard at the table when there are "just our folks 
here;" if temper was controlled as firmly when the 
feet are in slippers as in shoes; and if the smile was 
as sweet when wife is dressed in her morning wrapper 
as in lace; if there was the same kind of practicing 
that there is of preaching, there wouldn't be so much 
trouble in making the children behave; there wouldn't 
be so many inconsistencies in life, and not nearly so 
much awkwardness and labored attempt to be on good 
behavior and to appear at one's best — 
"When we have company." 



THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 

"Small service is true service while it lasts; 
The daisy by the shadow that it casts, 
Protects the lingering- dew-drop from the sun." 

Only the clank of a little tin cup as it falls against 
the hydrant. 

Yet one cannot hear sweeter music nor a purer 
gospel in any church than by listening this quiet Sun- 
day morning to the clank of the little tin cup. 

Only a battered, rusty little cup, which a thought- 
ful hand has tied to the hydrant in front of the humble 
cottage, so that the thirsty passer-by may step out of 
the dust and heat and be refreshed. The feeble old 
woman who has just let it drop from her withered hand 
and started on toward the great cathedral, as she 
pauses at its entrance to dip her finger in the holy 
water will not stop to think that the water in the little 
tin cup is holy, too. But it is, for it has been blessed 
by a smile, and touched by love, and as the little tin 
cup falls from her hand against the hydrant there is 
sweeter music in its clanking than in the grand organ 
which thrills the great cathedral from corner stone to 
gilded cross and a more inspiring service than that 
rendered by surpliced choir and intoning priests. 



THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 55 

The flushed face of a robust youth next bends over 
the little tin cup. He has just jumped from his wheel 
to moisten his lips for the longer ride before him, and 
which will take him far from the sound of the chime 
and the sight of the cross. God only knows where the 
road will lead him, or what dangers lurk for him in 
the shadows which lie along the pathway which now 
seems so sunny and flowery. As the aged form sits 
in the pew saying her prayers, and the ruddy youth 
spins along in search of pleasure, both should have 
with them the remembrance of the music sung and 
the sermon preached by the clanking of the battered 
and rusty little cup as it falls against the hydrant. 

For the little cup sings the hymns of a pure gospel 
and preaches a creed older than that of the apostles. 
Like many another humble singer, its song is only 
heard by those who listen with the heart. It is the 
music of the voice which is never heard in public, and 
which would stammer to sound a note even before the 
friendly guests in the parlor, but which has such sweet 
melody that the tired child nestles down to listen to it 
as to the song of an angel. Like many another hum- 
ble preacher, rusty in appearance, battered in long 
service, tied to a plain little pulpit, its sermon is only 
heard by the true worshipper. Yet it is the same old 
gospel which calls to every tired, dusty passer-by, "Ho 



56 THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 

everyone that thirsteth," and which promises to touch 
the rusty, battered little cup with the hand of divine 
love and change it by magic into a crown of gold as 
reward to him who did it unto one of the least of 
these. 

It is well enough to lay the broad stones and lift 
the holy spires, to build hospitals and endow universi- 
ties, to send mission ships ploughing through foreign 
seas, to adorn the gospel with glitterings and surround 
it with luxuriance, to give to its song the sweetest 
charm of melody and to its speech the deepest thrill of 
eloquence, for the gospel is worthy of them all, but 
yet when the weary, dusty plodder along the great 
highway feels the fevered flush and the parching thirst, 
he gladly steps aside to seize the little rusty and bat- 
tered tin cup which some thoughtful hand has tied to 
the simple hydrant in front of the humble cottage. 

Few of us have strength to put the great founda- 
tion stones in place, few of us have gold with which to 
gild the cross, few of us have art with which to fling 
beauty upon wall and window, few T of us have voice 
with which to fill the organ-loft with melody, few of 
us have speech with which to move the hearts of the 
great congregation, yet none so feeble, so poor, but 
that he can tie to the hydrant in his front yard a little 



THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 57 

tin cup that even the stranger may be refreshed and 
sent on his way happier and stronger, whether that 
way leads to the church, the workshop or the play- 
ground. 

Is the night dark and stormy? Don't pull down 
the shades, but let the cheer of your own home glim- 
mer into the street to touch the heart of some boy 
whom this thought of home may send to his room in 
the strange boarding house with a steadier step and 
may give him a holy thought of mother. Is the one 
you meet a stranger? Don't put your hand on your 
pocketbook and scowl with suspicion. A smile, the 
moving along to give him room on the car seat, the 
offering of a match for his unlit cigar, the giving an- 
swer to his puzzled look as to what that building is 
you are passing, may do more to open his eyes to the 
truth of the brotherhood of man than all your songs, 
and collections, and prayers and sermons, and may 
lead him to look up to catch a glimpse of the face of 
the common Father. The stamp put on the letter 
may carry the gospel further than the stamp put on 
the check. The few words of sympathy for the sor- 
rowing heart, though written with a clumsy pen, may 
cause the sunshine to chase away the shadow. 

It is well if from one's wealth of bounty he can 
place in the great park a splendid sparkling fountain, 



58 THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 

which all may enjoy. It is well for cities and churches 
to set up public drinking places, but better yet if the 
simple thoughtfulness of the loving heart would un- 
snarl from the tangle of life a bit of string, take down 
from the shelf of neglect the little tin cup, and tie it to 
the hydrant so that some feeble old woman who is 
somebody's mother and some ruddy youth who is 
somebody's boy might taste and know T that God is 
good and that we are all children of the one great 
family. 

Each year the pope gives a golden rose to some 
royal lady who has distinguished herself for loyalty to 
the church. The most cunning artificers spare neither 
time nor money in moulding the purest metal into a 
full blooming beauty as the center for a graceful 
grouping of buds and leaves, all traced with most ex- 
quisite workmanship. The gift so precious and com- 
ing from such holy hands, may well be striven for as 
if the sides be dented and the bottom rusted? The 
a prize above all others, but to the heart of fair lady 
who reaches out her lily hand to take the golden rose 
there can come no truer joy than comes to the weary, 
sad and dusty traveler along life's highway as he 
reaches out his hand to take the little tin cup which 
brings to his parching heart the water of life. What 
thoughtfulness of a strange hand and the love of an 



THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 59 

unknown heart have tied the little cup to the hydrant, 
and as the tired passer-by stops for rest and refresh- 
ment the clank of the little tin cup tells him that even 
in a stranger he finds a brother, and that God's family 
is getting together again. 



ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 

"The accusing- spirit which new up to heaven's 
chancery with the oath, blushed as he g-ave it in, 
and the recording- ang-el, as he wrote it down, 
dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out 
forever." 

"Lieutenant Hobson knelt down and prayed be- 
fore he started into Santiago with the Merrimac. Cap- 
tain Evans swore like a pirate when he started into 
the fight. Both have come out without a scratch and 
we are waiting for some theologian to explain which 
is which and why which is wherefore." 

Such is the comment made across the exchange 
table by one of the paragraphers. 

There is no use waiting for that theologian, for he 
will never come. Theologians have been trying to 
explain providence ever since there was any theology 
and haven't succeeded yet. When Job got into such 
trouble three of his friends waited upon him and 
sought to explain why so good a man should have 
boils instead of flocks. They spent a week in silent 
thought before opening their mouths to him, and even 
then they couldn't offer anything very satisfactory. 
Yet there are those todav who without a moment's 



ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 61 

thought and without any aid, seek to explain all the 
mysteries. Although in these later days they stand in 
a broad flood of light, yet as they seek to read the 
pages of human history they stammer and stutter 
worse than did poor Job, who had naught but a little 
flickering torch, and with all their books and diplomas 
they have to ask him ever and again how he pro- 
nounces this word and how that, as they blunderingly 
try to spell out the divine decrees. 

Yet it is foolish to think that God does not run this 
world because one can't understand how he runs it. 
As well might one claim that because the mighty en- 
gine is made up of wheels and pistons, and gets its 
power from the hissing steam, that it needs no engi- 
neer and that the hand on the lever has nothing to do 
with it, or that there is no hand because it is out of 
sight. Edison when asked on the witness stand to 
give a definition of electricity, was forced to admit 
that he could not define it, as no living man knows 
what it is, and yet we step onto the street car with just 
as much confidence as though we knew all about it, 
we pass our written message over the counter with- 
out a question but that it will in a flash reach the ab- 
sent friend, we shout < 'hello ,, and press the button, and 
go right on with the activities of life, using the mys- 
terious force in a thousand helpful ways. We don't 



62 ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 

stop to doubt and deny because sometimes two differ- 
ent cars are going in the same direction and some- 
times two cars which are alike are going opposite 
ways. It is only when we begin to puzzle ourselves 
about theological questions that w T e become impracti- 
cal and foolishly conclude that a power which we can't 
understand is no power. 

It is hard for the little curlyhead to understand why 
she cannot have meat for supper when she has been 
just as good as good could be all day; but it is plain 
enough to the anxious mother who has watched the 
flushed cheek of the troubled little dreamer tossing on 
a restless pillow and ever and anon breaking the still- 
ness of the night with a cry. Her big, romping 
brother, who has given father and mother no ena of 
trouble all day, had meat for his supper. He didn't 
deserve it as much as she, and she can't understand 
it. Poor, puzzled little one! She'll be more puzzled 
yet when the coming years place in her arms the 
sweetest babe on earth and just as she begins to give 
loving cuddle to it a strange hand takes it from her 
and leaves her alone in the darkness. On the curbing 
sits a little waif, who knows no mother's breast save 
that of the earth and no father's smile save that of the 
sky. Why didn't that strange hand lead her away 
beyond the mysterious horizon where mother's breast 



ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 60 

and father's smile meet at the entrance to the eternal 
home? Why leave her home without a child and 
leave that child without a home? The little curly head 
which bends over the puzzling problem at the tea table 
will be still more sorely troubled with the mystery 
when by and by it bends over the sweet face in the 
casket and then looks out at the ragged little form on 
the curbing. 

Two brave heroes, one praying, one cursing, yet 
the outstretched wing of infinite love protected both 
and the rain of iron death did not touch them, lie- 
cause we cannot understand shall we say there is no 
sheltering wing? We do not understand the human, 
how can we understand the superhuman? We catch 
the words of the curse as they fall from the lips, but 
we do not hear the prayer rising from the heart. 
''Fighting Bob" himself says that "the victory was 
won because God and the cannon were on our side." 
Yet we think only of his reckless appeal to the boys to 
"Give them hell," and wonder that the Father can 
protect such a wayward child. We forget that under- 
neath that rugged form there is a heart as tender as 
it is brave, and that when "Fighting Bob" in his rough 
way places God first, and the cannon next, there is as 
much sincerity in the Te Deum being chanted in the 
chapel of his soul as in that intoned by surpliced priests 



64 ONK CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 

in the great cathedral. How much incense of prayer 
went up from the altar of his better self to mingle with 
the great smoke of battle none but the Father knows ; 
but certain it is that the Slightest whispering of faith 
by his honest heart was heard above the thunder of 
the iron throat of war, and that both "God and the 
cannon were on our side." 

Doesn't it make any difference, then, whether one 
swears or prays? Hobson and Evans are both heroes, 
both win victory and honor, and yet the one is young 
and vigorous, the other twice as old, scarred and limp- 
ing. Doesn't it make any difference, therefore, 
whether one has many years before him or but few, 
and whether one has perfect form or crippled limb? 
The mother loves her child though he is a shut-in, and 
yet she wishes he could join with playmates in the 
sports of wood and field. The wayward boy causes 
the anxious heart to listen wakefully for his footstep 
and to count the striking of every hour during the long 
night. Doesn't it make any difference to him whether 
he is out in the cold and darkness or beneath the shel- 
ter of warmth and love? We can thus pick out from 
the tangled skein of human loves and passions a few 
of the simple threads. Is it not possible that the great 
weaver can do better than we children who are only 
playing about the loom? We cannot understand how 



ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 65 

the pattern is being worked out, nor why the threads 
are not all of one color, and yet we know that each 
thread is being watched and cared for, and that if 
helps to add brightness or shadow to the mysterious 
design being thus worked out. We know that it does 
make a difference whether a thread snaps or not. 
What matters it if we children as we play about the 
loom cannot tell how or why? 



SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, 
And our little life is rounded with a sleep." 

Little Bright-Eyes in her investigating tour of the 
house the next morning after Christmas, stumbled 
across, in a corner of the closet, a furry coat, a string 
of bells, and the mask worn by Santa Claus. Of 
course her dream was broken. The face which had 
beamed so jollily at her from among the branches of 
the tree lay there at her feet, a crumpled bit of paste- 
board, those long, white whiskers proved to be only a 
shaggly tangle of cotton and horse-hair, the great lov- 
ing eyes were only ghastly holes, the voice of laugh- 
ter was gone, the whole thing was lifeless. No more 
of the Santa Claus. 

It was a sudden awakening from a fairy dream, 
and it seemed at first as though there could never be 
another real Christmas. The very light of holiday joy 
cast such a dark shadow. Poor Santa was gone. 

But it was not a cruel awakening, because it was 
a natural awakening, and an awakening which comes 
sooner or later to all. Xo harsh voice had aroused 



SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 67 

childhood from its dream, no rude hand has broken 
the magic branches, no cruel fate had blurred the pic- 
ture. No, it was one of kindly Mother Nature's own 
gentle touches which had pushed aside the curtain of 
mystery, and given the vision of the larger truth. 

We all have our dreams and traditions. They are 
constantly being broken, and each day we are being- 
awakened and are awakening others. But how and 
to what? 

The loving father might have long ago called Little 
Bright-Eyes to him, and, as she snuggled so cling- 
inly in his arms to talk with him about Christmas, 
might have told her in words as sharp and crispy as 
the clear, frosty winter air outside, that there was no 
such thing as Santa Claus, and that the Christmas tree 
was not a real tree, but only a dead thing with no root 
to it, and that this was not the real birthday of that 
wonderful babe born so many years ago. but an old 
heathen festival dug out of the ruins of the past and 
brightened up by the touch of Christian thought. He 
might have told her there were no such things as 
angels, and that the stars had no voices and so it was 
all nonsense to say that they ever sang together for 
joy. But what would be the good? He might suc- 
ceed in convincing the childish reason and sad- 
dening the childish heart, but in pathetic won- 



68 SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 

derment that little soul would be still listening- in 
the hope of catching some stray note from the song of 
the stars, and her far-away look would be still toward 
the heaven to get a glimpse of angel wing, and her 
chubby hand would still be feeling amid the shadows 
for the touch of fairy fingers. 

The breaking of a dream, the awakening from 
sleep, is not sad, if natural. When the time for arous- 
ing comes, when the soft rays of a new day touch the 
long lashes and bid them open to new scenes, the 
change is not cruel. Life is a series of awakenings, 
from that which w T e call birth to that which we call 
death. From the cradle in the nursery to the couch in 
the sick chamber, throughout the long years, dreams 
are being broken, but even in both birth and death the 
awakening to newer and larger visions of truth brings 
sadness and pain only when man's sinfulness or ignor- 
ance rudely seeks to push aside the mysterious drap- 
eries. Divine nature tinges the dawn of each new 
truth with joy-beams, and only man casts a shadow. 

It is cruel to ruthlessly break dreams, just as surely 
as it is cruel to break the thread of life. We cry out 
against murder and against suicide, and yet how many 
dreams are murdered and how many hopes commit 
suicide? How many fond beliefs are tortured by those 



SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 69 

who justify their cruelty by the same conscientious 
plea which has made the most awful crimes to be 
committed in the holy name of religion? 

Advanced thought, progressive scholarship, scien- 
tific investigation, seem to feel that their chief mission 
is to go about thrusting the stiletto into the old faiths 
and smashing old traditions with the iron hammer. 

Then shall they let the world dream on, and sleep 
itself away, with not a thought of the new light? No, 
indeed, but let them gently open the curtains, let the 
divine light of the new truth do the awakening. Let 
them step to one side, and not cast the shadow of their 
personality and their creeds between the dreamer and 
the sunlight. 

But when one does awaken from the dream, when 
one finds the tradition broken, shall there be sadness? 
Shall one, on stumbling over the mask of Santa Claus, 
sit down in the ashes like a mourning Cinderella? 
Shall one weep over a shattered creed like a child 
whose toy is broken? Because some great light in the 
chancel has gone out shall one forget that the night 
of sorrow will soon disappear in the greater joy of the 
morning when, if one will but look up, not down, there 
will be seen the more glorious sunlight tipping with 
renewed inspiration the cross on the spire? 



70 

No, let the investigators rummage through all the 
closets, let them find their old Santa Claus' masks, 
let them tumble over the jingling creeds of yesterday, 
let them smash the myths into fragments, but let them 
not feel sad about it. What if the face of old Santa 
Claus proves to be but pasteboard and paint, with a 
tangle of cotton and horse-hair? When it is pulled 
off there will be seen the face of the real Santa Claus, 
warmer, more loving, and more lasting. Santa Claus 
is not gone, but he simply shows more of himself. 

The mask has had its use. Let the old doctrine, 
the old statement of truth, the old commentary be kept 
so long as there is any use for them, but when the 
dream is broken, the tradition shattered, and the new 
vision of truth presents itself in a clearer light, let it be 
greeted with that joy which makes the stars sing 
together at the coming of the morning of a new day, 
though the sunlight robs them of their seeming glory 
in the eyes of men. 

Little Bright-Eyes need not be sad because a real 
Santa Claus has taken the place of the make-believe. 

She finds the same old love, only with another 
face. 

That other face is sweeter. 



WHAT IS A MAN? 



WANTED— A MAX: XOT PARTICULAR 
as to age, size or nativity: no references re- 
quired. Apply at any hour, day or night, to The 
Great World. 



What is a man? Everybody knows and yet no- 
body can tell. We turn into the library, and though 
its shelves bend with the weight of philosophy and 
science, on no page can be found written the secret 
which everybody knows, and which no one has yet 
been able to pen. We look at the mists of the morn of 
creation, and the clouds seem to wreath themselves 
into letters from which we spell out the words: "So 
God created man in his own image,'' but the rest of the 
sentence is hidden in the blue of the heaven above, 
and we cannot spell out what that image is. Then 
we turn to man himself and ask him what he is. He 
knows, but cannot tell. He has spent centuries in try- 
ing to draw a picture of himself, only to wipe it from 
the slate to give room to a new attempt. He- 
brew poetry tried to sing the secret, but flung down 
its harp in despair, and sighed: "What is man that 
thou art mindful of him?'' Greek philosophy placed 
its ideal on the cold, polished pedestal of its marbled 



72 WHAT IS A MAN? 

fame, and declared man to be only a little lower than 
the angels, and then the ideal and the pedestal crum- 
bled and fell. Materialism has nodded assent to Plato's 
picturing of a man as a two-legged animal without 
feathers, and then as Diogenes has plucked the 
feathers from a rooster and set that up as a man, the 
world has seen that man has wider differences from 
other creations than those of his animal form and cov- 
ering. Evolution has painted him as the grandson of 
a monkey, and theosophy as a drifting bit of cloud- 
life. Man has thought of himself as only an animal, 
and then as he caught the sound of dust falling to 
dust from the hand of the passing year, and as he has 
had a glimpse of the smiling face of an angel mother, 
hope has whispered to his heart that he, too, is im- 
mortal, and he has seized the pen of prophecy and 
written another volume to place on the shelves. Yes, 
the library is crowded with what man has done, and 
what man has hoped, but. read through all the books, 
and read between the lines, -and nowhere is the secret 
told of what man is. 

Then we turn from the library into the noisy street 
of daily activity, and ask the busy world what a man 
is. The world gives answer — "I cannot tell you, but 
I know a man when I see one. I can tell one way up 
the street, long before he gets near enough for me to 



WHAT IS A MAX? 73 

see whether he carries on his shoulder an epaulet or a 
spade. I don't bother myself in defining man, but in 
using him." Then the world rushes on to give glad 
welcome to the coming man, and leaves the questioner 
still standing in the shadow of the great mystery, 
"What is a man?" 

It doesn't ask his age, for the passing of childhood 
into manhood, and the passing of manhood into child- 
hood again, are not told by the shadow on the dial. 
As "life is a noise between two silences," so the man- 
hood to which the world beckons is that which stands 
between two childhoods. Its activity is that between 
the helplessness of the one and the restfulness of the 
other. It is the man of most activity and not of most 
years whom the world wants. A real man is never too 
young, nor too old, to be of use to the world. 

It doesn't make any difference what the size of the 
man is so long as he is a man. There are places in 
which the smallest man is of as much use to the world 
as the man who is so great as to be worthy of having 
his name written in the golden book of Venice. The 
foundation stone, out of sight, is as needful a part of 
the cathedral as its glittering cross. Each man makes 
his own stature, and his stature is not to be measured 
bv the shadow he casts, but bv the sunshine he sheds. 



74 WHAT IS A MAN? 

As in Emerson's famous fable the squirrel said to the 
mountain: "You can carry great forests on your back, 
but you cannot crack a nut/' so the smallest man can 
do some things for the world which the greatest 
among men cannot do, and things which the world 
needs done. The pigmy becomes a giant by the faith- 
ful performance of a duty, while the giant shrinks into 
a pigmy by its neglect. 

It makes no difference where or how the man was 
born. The manger may bring forth a king, the throne 
produce a fool. The bean comes up with its father 
bean on its back, but it does not become a real bean 
until it shoots forth for itself. The boy never becomes 
a man so long as his dependence is upon parental 
strength and pedigree. The world does not want a 
man who is waiting for the opening of father's will, 
nor one whose record ended when his ancestors felt 
the keel of the Mayflower grating on the new shore. 
The world wants a man — not his money, his titles, his 
genealogy — but a man, and it is so anxious to find one 
that it often hurries past the palace to rap loudly at 
the door of the cabin and ask if there is a man inside. 
It matters not whether there is any paint on the old- 
fashioned cradle. The world does not want the cradle. 
It wants the man. 



WHAT IS A max: 75 

Never mind showing your references. It is well 
enough to have them if they have been won and not 
merely given. It doesn't matter so much what you 
have done, as what you can do. It matters little what 
others say you are. It matters much what you 
really are. The world has no time to spend 
in coddling past achievement. Let that take its well- 
earned leisure and rest, and not bother present activity 
by its crying out for attention. The hired man who 
helped in last year's harvesting must help in this year's, 
too, if he would win new wages. The world pays as it 
goes, pays for what a man is, not for what he was, nor 
for what he promises to be. Put your references back 
into your pocket and show what you can do and the 
world will soon decide whether it wants you or not. 

Apply at any time. The door of opportunity is 
open. Step inside without stopping to wipe your feet 
or to knock. There is a job waiting for you. It may 
not be just what you are looking for. If the desired 
scepter is not in sight pick up that spade. In the 
hands of honest effort it will serve you better than a 
scepter for opening in the dark earth an entrance to 
the treasure house of the world. There may be no 
blare of herald and triumphant march for you, but you 
will find more royal music in your own merry whistle 
as you trudge back and forth with the swinging din- 



76 WHAT IS A MAN? 

ner bucket, and will feel that after all it is better to be 
crowned a man than to be crowned a king. The world 
is waiting for you. "Get thy spindle and thy distaff 
ready, and God will send thee flax." 






LOVING THE DEVIL. 

"Mamma, do you love the devil?" 

"Of course not. my child." 

"Does papa love the devil?*" 

"Of course not.** 

'•Doesn't God love the devil?" 

"No, no: nobody loves so wicked a thing- as the 
devil." 

"Well, then, mamma, if nobody loves him. I 
don't see how he can help being- wicked." 

Childhood as it stands watching the hands of the 
musician run up and down the keyboard and listens 
to the same old, set music of life, often puts out its 
dimpled and untaught finger to touch a neglected note. 
We call it a discord, and give sharp chiding for the 
rude interruption, and send her back to her dolls and 
playhouse, for we don't want to be bothered any more. 
We forget that the sweetest song of earth swells from 
the feathered throat of the little warbler who knows 
nothing and cares less about the distinguished com- 
poser whose hand places the sheet of music on the 
rack and with a wave of his baton bids the world sing 
it as he says it should be sung. What does he know 
about music? He never was a member of the chorus 
in the tree top, he never watched nature beating time 
with the little green bou^h for a baton, he never heard 



78 LOVING THE DEVIL. 

the sweet whisperings of the leaves, nor caught the in- 
spiration of the summer breeze, but in his stuffy room 
has tried to teach the world about music. We follow 
him and forget the bird, and when the dimpled finger 
reaches out to touch the neglected note it sounds like 
a discord. 

It shocks us to hear prattling innocence voicing 
sympathy for the poor devil, and it seems almost like 
profanity. Those who have written the theological 
score for us to follow didn't provide for the touching 
of this deep, bass note, which the little dimpled finger 
has so thoughtlessly sounded, and yet wouldn't it have 
been better if they had? Wouldn't the church chimes 
sound sweeter this morning, if they voiced more of 
the cheerful wooing and less of the solemn warning? 
If there was more ecclesiastical coaxing and less 
ecclesiastical clubbing wouldn't there be more wor- 
shippers in the pews this morning, and more repent- 
ants at the altar? 

It is easy, though, to tell what the preachers and 
church members should say and do, and to point out 
the great mistake they make in not showing more 
love and sympathy for the wayward and fallen, but not 
so easy to realize that one cannot by staying out of 
the church shirk the same responsibility which rests 
on them. "A man's a man for a' that," whether he 



LOVING THE DEVIL. 79 

has taken the sacramental vows or not, and he has a 
man's duty to perform toward the other members of 
the great family whether his name is on the church 
roll or not. He cannot excuse himself because those 
who profess better things do worse than he. The 
piece of music on the piano is by a human composer 
and like the human creed and human service, is for 
the few who can understand and enjoy it, but the 
rain and the sunshine are for the just and the unjust, 
the warbler in the tree-top is almost bursting its little 
feathered throat that every ear may catch the sweet 
song of nature's joy, and when childhood, standing 
at the keyboard, touches the neglected note it should 
cause every heart to give answer to the prattler's ques- 
tion — 

u Do you love the devil?" 

One good mother was once rallied by her daugh- 
ter because of her habit of always seeing some good 
in every one. 

"Mother, I believe you'd even have a good word 
to say for the devil?" 

"Well, I must confess that I admire his persever- 
ance." 

There isn't much possibility of converting the devil 
by love and there's very little to commend in his char- 
acter, vet there are few in the world who have sunk 



80 LOVING THE DEVIL. 

to his degradation. If there is anything to commend 
and encourage in him there are surely many things in 
those poor, weak humans who have simply wandered 
off from the king's highway. But we look at the one 
great fault and forget the many virtues. It matters 
not how or why the prison stripes have once been 
placed on a man, he is forever after a convict and 
never a man. Even after he has paid the penalty of 
his crime society keeps punishing him. It is easy for 
us to believe that a man has recovered from the delir- 
ium of fever, that he has been cured of the drink habit, 
that he has quit lying or swearing, but it is hard for 
us to believe that a man who has once stolen is not 
forever to be looked upon as a thief. We — not merely 
the church people — but we, saints and sinners alike, 
continue to shun him and hate him and then we won- 
der that he steals again, and give a knowing wink and 
say, "I expected it." 

We need to listen to the bird and not to the com- 
poser, to hear the neglected note sounded by the 
dimpled finger, to forget the pianist and listen to the 
music of the prattler's voice: 

"Well, mamma, if nobody loves him, I don't see 
how he can help being wicked." 

"Milady" in her carriage turns her eyes the other 
way as she sees the flaunting creature of vice passing 



LOVING THE DEVIL. 81 

on the sidewalk, and is disgusted with the face which 
seeks to mask its brazenness under the daubed colors 
of virtue. She fails to recognize in the features and 
form the one who but a few years ago entered her 
kitchen as an innocent country girl, unused to city 
ways,, ready to believe the whispered love in which 
cunning lust tempts with the holiest of words, with no 
loving voice of warning since mother died, with no 
protection save a roof, and that the roof of a house 
and not of a home, with no guidance save the harsh 
directions as to how she should perform her domestic 
duties, with no care save the supplying of food and 
lodging and the weekly placing in her tired hand the 
amount of her scanty earnings — the old, old story, 
which might never have been told had there been 
given her just a little thoughtfulness, just a few smiles, 
some kindly warnings, a bit of loving advice, an occa- 
sional word of encouragement, for she was somebody's 
daughter. But the misstep was taken and the girl's 
dream of a loving protector all her own, and of a shel- 
tering home in which she should be queen, was cruelly 
broken by a shattered promise. The world turned its 
back and refused to allow her to do even its menial 
work, and — 

"Well, mamma, if nobody loves her, I don't see 
how she can help being wicked.''' 



82 LOVING THE DEVIL. 

Frightful are the wounds of sin, but love can heal 
them. It cannot take away the scar, but it can cover 
it with the tenderness of protection and prevent the 
needless probing of the old wound. It isn't the mis- 
sion of the church alone to help lift fallen humanity, 
but the duty of every member of God's great family. 

There's a frightened outcry and the heart turns 
sick, for the man in trying to board the moving car 
has slipped and the cruel wheels have passed over him. 
Strange hands show the eagerness of those of love to 
raise the sufferer and care for his needs, and willing 
service offers to nurse him back to life. He knew he 
should have waited for the car to stop for him, but 
he was in a hurry, he wanted to get a seat, there was 
a crowd. He has no one but himself to blame for hav- 
ing lost a limb, but all these things are overlooked in 
the great sympathy with which the heart of the world 
beats for him in his misfortune. True, he must go 
through life as a cripple, but the sight even of his 
crutch will awaken the sympathy of the passer-by, 
though a stranger, and if his foot should slip and he 
should fall there will be all the more readiness in the 
offer of kindly help because he is a cripple. 

But when there is that other startled cry and a man 
guided by folly and prompted by selfishness falls be- 



LOVING THE DEVIL. »3 

neath those iron wheels which crush not limb, but 
heart, how many strange hands are then outstretched 
with loving eagerness to rescue him? After he has 
lost what is dearer than limb and is obliged to go 
through life a moral cripple, how many are there who 
are ready to sympathize with his misfortune instead 
of chiding him for his waywardness? If he seeks to 
steady his steps by some crutch of a new resolution 
and his foot slips, how many are there to give all the 
readier help in lifting him again because he is a 
cripple? 

"Well, then, mamma, if nobody loves him, I don't 
see how he can help being wicked/' 

Hasn't the dimpled finger in touching the key- 
board sounded a neglected note? 



STOP YOUR PRAYING. 



"He prayeth well, who loveth well, 
Both man and bird and beast." 



"Let us pray" — hold on, old man, just a minute, 
for you're not ready to pray yet. You are on your 
knees all right and you ought to stay on them for a 
while, but there's a good bit of repentance to be done 
before you are in real good condition to lead in the 
family prayers this Sunday morning. Stay right where 
you are and do a little thinking, anyway. 

How did you get up this morning? God's cheeriest 
angel of the heaven sent a sunshiny smile into your 
bedroom window to gladly welcome your return from 
fairy dreamland, and you angrily yanked down the 
curtain to shut it out, and commenced the day with a 
scowl which hasn't yet left your face. You couldn't 
find but one of your slippers and because your little 
girl's puppy playmate had dragged it into the other 
room in a frolicsome chase, you kicked the dog and 
gave the innocent prattler a brutal blow, not with your 
fist — you were too cowardly to do that, for fear of the 



STOP YOUR PRAYING. 85 

neighbors — but you struck the child with that cruel 
tongue of yours, and the little heart was made sad, 
there were tears in those great brown eyes, and — now 
don't you feel like a brute? 

"Let us pray" — not yet — a little more repentance. 
Breakfast was a little late this morning and as you 
looked across the table at the sweet-faced madonna 
of the tea tray was there any good morning greeting, 
wreathed in a loving smile, to send cheer to the tired 
little woman who had done as hard a week's work as 
you, and who had sacrificed her needed Sunday morn- 
ing nap to wrestle with the obstinacy of a smoky 
stove, to get a clean towel for one child, to hunt up 
a missing stocking for another, to untie the knot in 
the perverse shoestring, to pin and to button, and at 
the same time keep the steak from burning on and the 
coffee from boiling over? What reward was there for 
her? A snappy chiding, a scowl because the steak had 
got cold while waiting for you to put on a clean Sun- 
day collar so that you would look all right in the dea- 
con's pew, a frown because the cakes were a little 
burned in the eagerness to comply with your "hurry 
up, now/ 5 a snatching up of the morning paper and 
a selfish devouring of the news, while the others about 
the board maintained a deathlike silence lest they 
should disturb "papa.'' 



86 STOP YOUR PKAYING. 

"Let us pray" — wait a minute. When you took 
from the table the big family Bible, and selfishly seated 
yourself in the only rocking chair in the room, you 
were mad — yes, you were — because wife kept you 
waiting a minute while she put on some water for the 
dishes, so that it could be heating while that long 
prayer of yours was being said. That rollicking boy 
who had rather be in purgatory than in a chair, 
couldn't resist the temptation to take a peep at the 
new top which was just sticking out of his jacket 
pocket, and you damned him. Oh, no, you didn't do it 
with your tongue, you didn't put your cursing into 
English, you are too pious for that, but you damned 
him just the same and in a language which the boy 
learned to understand long before he learned to talk. 

"Let us pray" — just a minute more. Open that 
family Bible again and look at the page headed "Mar- 
riages and Births." You've taken great pains to fill 
it out, and it is the most sacred page in the book. You 
say that's your writing? Not a bit of it. You simply 
held the pen, and dipped it in the ink-bottle. God did 
the writing. "Married," — did you write that? Not a 
bit of it. Don't you remember as she leaned on your 
arm as you walked down the carpeted steps of her old 
home and you placed her so gently in the carriage 
in which you were to take her to the new home, you 



STOP YOUR PRAYING. 87 

never saw such beauty of brown eyes, you never felt 
such wealth of chestnut tresses, you never had such 
pride of strength and protection for the trembling, 
clinging form of grace and loveliness. 

"Married" — do you still think you wrote it? Don't 
you hear those words, "Whom God hath joined to- 
gether?" Who is the man who dares put asunder? 
Look up at the mirror over the grate. You will see 
him. It's the same face that smiled in loving protec- 
tion twenty years ago, when God put that pen in your 
hand and bade you write in the new family Bible 
"Married/' It's the same face that frowned so this 
morning because the cakes were scorched. It is the 
face of the man who dares put asunder. 

"Born?" Did you write that? Xot a bit of it. 
Don't you remember that morning when that beauty 
of brown eyes was hidden by the modest drooping of 
the long lashes and that wealth of chestnut tresses 
rested on your shoulder as heaven's most loving secret 
was whispered in your ear by the lips of the angel to 
whom it was first told? That secret was by and by 
told to your friends, and as you proudly held that little 
bundle of frilled and flounced robes in your arms, and 
listened to these friends as they told you it was the fin- 
est boy in the world, you thought they didn't put it 



88 vSTOP YOUR PRAYING. 

half strong enough. That precious bundle is larger 
now, and wears a jacket, and sits on the chair with 
every coltish nerve quivering with activity, and when 
he just takes a peep at that new top, you, — well, we 
won't say more. 

"Let us pray/'— yes, but just begin where it says, 
"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who 
trespass against us." There, that will do. Have you 
forgiven those who trespassed against you? How 
about the tired little wife and her scorched cakes? 
How about the slipper and the little girl and her puppy 
playmate? How about that boy and his top? For- 
given? You smile. 

"Let us pray," — yes, pray, pray all day, if you want 
to. Long or short, your prayer will be heard now. 



A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 

"Then gently scan your brother man. 
Still g-entler sister woman, 
Thoug-h the}* may grang- a kennin' \vrang\ 
To step aside is human. "' 

It has come to the ears of the preacher that some 
of the sisters have been doing more preaching of last 
Sunday's sermon than the brethren have been doing 
practicing and the brethren are not happy. One good 
deacon has been almost driven from home by the good 
wife constantly reminding him of his duty to always 
wear an ear-to-ear smile, even when that off corn has 
just been stepped on by that rollicking boy. The 
good wife, with a reckless abandon, has placed doughy 
cakes, cold coffee and scorched steak before him, and 
because he did not partake with the usual heartiness, 
she has burst into tears and declared that she wishes 
she had never left mamma to come and live with an 
old brute whose only idea of life seems to be — "Let 
us pray." 

The sisters need preaching to as well as the breth- 
ren. It isn't fair to expect the old man to supply all 
the religion, as well as all the groceries, for the whole 



90 A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 

family, nor should he be expected to do all the smiling 
and furnish all the sunshine for the home. He has 
been out all day, wrangling and wrestling with 
sharp competition, working against odds which test 
every bit of heroism in his blood, meeting disappoint- 
ments and reverses which leave their record in the 
wrinkled brow and the whitening hair, toiling and 
struggling, for what? That he might get something 
for self? Xo; that hand-me-down suit with its fad- 
ings, its rippings and its frayings, is still good enough, 
and the old hat with its grease spot and dust will do 
awhile longer, but all day long labor has been made 
light by the thought of little wife and the baby, by the 
dream of a new home some day, by the hope of some 
little surprise which the day's wages will enable him to 
carry home, and already he gets a glimpse of that old 
smile and the old twinkle of joy as he pulls the pack- 
age from under his coat, and watches the worn, tired 
little face become transformed into the girlish counte- 
nance of sunshiny innocence upon which he used to 
gaze so lovingly as they stood leaning over the stile, 
when he was the boy who had forgotten the cows in 
this one glimpse of heaven. 

His weary footstep was lightened by expectancy 
as he crossed the threshold of home, but the vision of 
the girlish face was hidden by the cloudy disappoint- 



A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 91 

merit as you, fretty and tired, greeted him with a chid- 
ing for keeping the supper waiting and making it so 
late for you with the dishes. You listlessly took the 
bundle as though it was a right, rather than a favor, 
and you never noticed the eagerness which lighted 
up that tired face, and which faded into sadness as 
you tore off the paper and with a glance at the pattern, 
said you never could wear that color and the figure 
was too large, anyway. You tossed it aside and asked 
him where he got it, and whether it couldn't be 
changed for something else. There was in that brown 
package the tenderest throbbings of a great, manly 
heart, and if the figure of that dress pattern was old- 
fashioned and ugly, every line and curve was graced 
with the loving tracery of noble sacrifice, but your eyes 
were so blinded with the smoke of the kitchen drudg- 
ery that they saw not the beauty of the gift, and that 
tired husband, whose very weariness was a tribute to 
his love for you, found the roses turned into ashes. 

You never thought to have his slippers ready. It 
was not many years ago that your dainty fingers 
cheerily plied the embroidery needle in rich flowerings 
of adornment for the Christmas encasing of those feet, 
which now tired with the toil and struggle for you and 
the little ones, drag wearily in the hunt through the 
darkened closet to find the scattered pair of old shoes 



92 A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 

in which they may find some restful ease, while the 
echo of that long-ago cheery voice of the bride bid- 
ding "deary" take the easy chair by the grate, where 
his slippers were already warming, is broken by the 
rasping voice asking, "What are you doing in there?" 

You've told the children to wait until father comes 
homeland "he will attend to you," as though he was 
a horrible bogy, and there is a flying of little feet in 
terror at his coming, where there should be the out- 
stretching of dimpled arms, the press of rosy cheeks 
and the tender caress of velvety fingers to smooth 
those wrinkles of care and to make that rough and 
unshaven face beam with the gladness of a home-com- 
ing. 

You have been gossiping at the backdoor with the 
neighbor, and have been planning with the dressmaker, 
or have been sportively tossing hard-earned dollars 
over the bargain counter, and when the tired father 
and husband hesitates when you ask him if the par- 
lor cannot be repapered, you think he is getting 
stingy, and perhaps say so. You don't stop to think 
that all the way home he has been wondering how that 
last bill of dry goods you ordered is to be paid, and 
that tired back seems almost to be breaking under the 
many burdens which you have kept thoughtlessly pil- 



A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 93 

ing upon it, and yet not one word of reproach comes 
from between those lips, and yet you fret and scold at 
him because those lips are not always smiling. 

You never think, now-a-days, to repeat those whis- 
perings of love, which, in earlier years, you were as 
eager to speak as to hear. They seem silly to you 
now. Life has become a snappy, cold reality, and all 
the wreathings of sentiment and romance have been 
frosted. 

Your best gown and your sweetest smile are for 
company. The faded, torn calico, the hair caught up 
with one pin, the slovenly-heeled shoes, they do, for 
"there is no one here but the folks." No one here? 
Who is that sitting in the shadow, worried and wonder- 
ing, silently struggling with the problems of life, 
yearning for a repassing of that dream of home which 
so gilded the hope of the young heart, but which has 
faded into the almost forgotten by the overshadowing 
realization that work and worry is all there is of life? 
That form stood straighter a few years ago, and you 
were so proud of its manly strength. Who has caused 
the bending and the wrinkling? 

Yes, the sisters need a little preaching to. 



CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 

"Don't cheer, boys, those poor devils are dying-." 

The Spanish admiral's ship was in flames, the hated 
flag of yellow and red was being pulled down, and as 
if to fill the beaker of victory to the full, a mighty ex- 
plosion hurled the Oquendo into a seething hell. Then 
the brave lads of the Texas shouted as only those can 
who have won a most glorious victory for a most 
righteous cause. 

"Don't cheer, boys," shouted Captain Philip, 
"those poor devils are dying." 

The gallant officer called all hands to the quarter- 
deck, and, with bared head, declared: 

"I want to make public acknowledgement here 
that I believe in God, the Father Almighty, and I 
want all you officers and men to lift your hats and 
from your hearts offer silent thanks to the Almighty." 

Such prayer and such thanksgiving rising with 
the incense of the clouds of battle and intoned by the 
thunderings of war, must have found their way easily 
to the throne of grace. No grander religious service 



CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 95 

by the children of men ever broke upon the mysterious 
silence of God's great cathedral, and the echoes will 
continue to thrill its vast recesses and chapels, inspir- 
ing honest worshippers everywhere and for all time. 

The scoffer who sneers at religion because it is only 
fitted for goody-goody men, hysterical women and 
prattling children, stands rebuked in the presence of 
these rugged apostles as he listens to the plain gospel 
which they proclaim. There are no sleekly-dressed 
deacons in the "amen" corner, but great death-belch- 
ing guns, whose iron throats give forth such voice 
that the whole earth trembles and smokes, and the 
mighty waters are lashed into frenzy. Xo, it's no 
nimby-pamby religion that can hush such voices of 
thunder into reverent silence, and can cause such 
heroic giants to bow their bared heads in homage. 
Such a religion cannot be downed by a sneer. 

The service did not need the garnishment of priest- 
ly robes and starched vestments, a fretwork of cun- 
ningly carved creeds, pulpit upholstery, a dim cathe- 
dral light, a roof of flying arches, and an outpouring 
of waves of harmony from the organ loft. It was 
grandly impressive without these embellishments, be- 
cause it was genuine and heartfelt. 



96 creed of the quarterdeck. 

Then, too, it was the preaching of that wonderful 
gospel, forever old, forever new. Theologians have 
tried to tinker it, and patch it, scrape it and varnish it, 
carve their names upon it, and twist it and mould it into 
some new form to suit a passing fancy or fashion but 
they have died and been forgotten, while the old, old 
gospel lives on. None can add to its charm, and none 
can take from it. Only when hidden under the rub- 
bish of human prejudice and passion does it fail to at- 
tract. When brought forth in its simplicity and 
strength, the honest and the heroic everywhere bare 
their heads and bow their hearts in its presence. 

A simple and strong religion, and, therefore, just 
such a one as is needed by all, whether they stand on 
the quarterdeck, peering anxiously as the battle 
clouds lift, to see whether victory or defeat is in wait- 
ing, or sitting in the quiet of the eventide of life, 
watching the sunset and wondering what of the mor- 
row. Strong enough to give to the arm of the hero 
sinews of steel, and gentle enough to dimple with a 
dream-smile the cheek of the sleeping innocent. So 
mighty as to lift to the heavens the great dome of 
science hall, and to touch the cross on the tallest spire 
with its finger of light, and yet so simple that the 
white-robed little cuddler at mother's knee is taught 
to place her chubby hand in that of the great and lov- 



CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 97 

ing Father, and to trust him to lead her into the dark 
mysteries of dreamland. 

What is the creed of this wonderful religion thus 
preached from the quarterdeck? 

"Don't cheer, boys, those poor devils are dying/' 

Only another way of putting the old command to 
love thy neighbor as thyself. 

"I believe in the Father Almighty." 

Only another way of putting the old command to 
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart. 

It's after all the old, old gospel, which bids us lay 
down self as a stepping stone by which our brother 
may reach the Father. It's after all the plain, practical 
religion which bids man to think less of himself and 
more of his fellow, and to trust in the maker of both, 
not alone as the Almighty, but as the Father 
Almighty. 

As there was never true knight without fair lady, 
as war has ever received its truest inspiration from 
love, and love its strongest protection from war, as the 
stalwart lance is graced by the fluttering of the dainty 
favor, so the true hero, in all the contests of life, is 
he whose arm is strong and whose heart is gentle. 
The religion which conquers the powers of darkness 
must be as loving as it is brave. It must be able to 



98 CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 

fight and to forgive. It must hush the shout of triumph 
and in tearful sympathy make appeal for those de- 
feated. 

"Don't cheer, boys, those poor devils are dying." 

It must have such clear vision as to see earth and 

heaven as they touch and kiss at the horizon, and as 

with one hand it gently lifts the fallen, with the other 

it must point yonder and by its works voice its faith — 

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty." 



UNTAUGHT WINGS. 

"An idler is a watch that wants both hands: 
As useless if it g-oes as if it stands.'' 

There is now a faucet instead of a well-sweep, a 
coal bin in place of a wood pile, a chandelier instead 
of a candle mold, and the boy quits turning the grind- 
stone to ride the wheel while his sister drops the 
broom to pick up the tennis racket. The old rabbi 
truthfully declared that "tne best book is the world 
and the best teacher time;" but the hand of inventive 
genius has so rapidly turned the leaves of this wonder- 
ful book that even under the instruction of so experi- 
enced a teacher we have skipped many an important 
lesson. 

We now employ help for our home duties instead 
of employing home duties for our help. Because there 
is no longer need of the boy being a hewer of wood 
and a drawer of water we neglect to give him other 
employment by which he may learn in the home the 
art of helpfulness which will cause the finger of greater 
opportunity to beckon him into the field of larger 
achievement. Because there is no longer need of 



l.cfC. 



100 UNTAUGHT WINGS. 

trimming- greasy wicks and because it is so much 
easier to get bread from the cart than from the oven, 
the daughter in the home is placed among the bric-a- 
brac, and becomes more ornamental than useful. 

Mamma sees to it that the wardrobe is complete 
from the kindergarten frock to the graduating gown. 
Papa provides the boy with everything from his first 
jack-knife to his latest wheel. From the penny taken 
to Sunday school by the little tot who is too small to 
own a pocket to put it in, on through the years until 
the crisp bill is handed over to meet the expenses of 
taking his best girl to the lake, the parental purse is 
looked upon as only a source of supply, and never as 
a cause of demand. 

He is a handsome, manly looking fellow as he 
stands on the corner glancing up and down the street 
and wondering which way good luck will come from. 
Father is still wearily grinding at the mill. The little 
maiden has bloomed into an American beauty and in 
graceful idleness awaits the coming of a loving hand 
to pluck it. Mother sits in the shadow still weaving 
the silver threads and lines of care as the busy shuttle 
of her anxious thought flies from hope to fear and 
back again. Why don't the young folks do something 
for themselves? Why don't they make something of 



UNTAUGHT WINGS. 101 

themselves? Shame on them — one waiting for some 
soft job to come along; the other waiting for some 
soft fellow. 

Ah, they are not altogether at fault. The world 
is the best book and time the best teacher, and al- 
though we have both book and teacher love is often 
deaf and blind, and fails to learn the lesson. If the 
trained fingers have carelessly turned two pages at a 
time, who shall too sharply chide the dimpled little 
fist of childhood for its heedless crumpling of the 
leaves? When the hydrant took the place of the bucket 
the lad's arm should have been taught to carry other 
burdens and the supplying of other needs of the home. 
Now that the candle mold is tossed into the rubbish 
pile, and the touch of a finger gives the command: 
"Let there be light, and there is light," the hand of 
the little maiden should be given other training to 
develop womanly skill in helpfulness and independ- 
ence; but, no, the boy must sacrifice ruggedness to 
mock gentility and the beauty of maiden must be 
robbed of its strength by the too tender protection of 
the trellis. 

What is the matter with the boys and girls now-a- 
days? If you really want to know, ask what is the 
matter with the fathers and mothers now-a-davs? The 



102 UNTAUGHT WINGS. 

lad is sent away to a military school and because the 
rules require him to get up when the bell rings, make 
his own bed, and black his own boots, he does so, and 
feels rather proud of his achievements. It's soldier- 
like to be so helpful and independent and is considered 
the proper thing, and whatever you may think of a 
boy there is down deep in his heart a desire to do the 
proper thing after all. But the same lad at home 
takes another nap even after the second bell, doesn't 
throw back the clothes to let the bed air, goes yawn- 
ing from a room littered with crumpled shams and 
dirty collars to a late breakfast, growls at the cold 
coffee and then saunters down town, whistles to a 
bootblack and spends one of his father's hard-earned 
nickels in getting a shine. You blame the boy, and 
he is to be blamed, but he is not the only one. There 
is no more reason why the loving rule of home should 
not be as effective as the military rule of school in so 
teaching that boy what the proper thing is as to de- 
velop in him the willingness and ability to be helpful 
and independent. 

Another of the old rabbis gave forth the precept, 
"First learn, then teach." Those who have been try- 
ing to teach the boy and girl have forgotten to first 
learn the lesson that the greatest help we can give 



UNTAUGHT WINGS. 103 

those we love is to help them so that they may be able 
to help themselves. 

Why, even the timorous twitter of the frightened 
nestling pushed over the edge of its leafy nest by a 
mother-love forcing the trial of its untaught wings, is 
full of inspired wisdom. There is a time when the 
stronger wing must shelter and the larger beak furnish 
food, but the cuddling indulgence of the home-nest 
is but the school of preparation and the mother bird is 
ever looking over the edge into the blue expanse of 
greater happiness and wider activity and planning for 
the day when the tender wing of the loved one shall 
gain the needed strength to speed to a higher branch 
upon another tree on which hope already sees another 
nest and another brood to be covered by the sheltering 
wing of this nestling who is thus forced by love over 
the edge of the old home — forced by love to gain con- 
fidence even from the feeble beating of the air with 
frightened wing — forced by love to learn the lesson of 
self-helpfulness and happy independence. 

Listen to the frightened twitter and — first learn, 
then teach. 



THE FORCED TEAR. 

'•Full twenty times was Peter feared. 
For once that Peter was respected. " 

"I'm sorry." 

Yes, you've made the little rebel surrender and say 
he's sorry. Aren't you proud of your victory — you, 
a broad-shouldered, stalwart-limbed six-footer, able 
to crush the life out of that fragile little form with the 
grip of your one hand — aren't you proud of having 
conquered the little rebel whose only armor is a pina- 
fore and whose only weapon is a tear? 

Conquered him? If you only had an angel's vision 
you would see beneath the pinafore a heart beating as 
defiantly as that of Lucifer when his eyes flash back 
the answer of hate to the peaceful message of the stars. 
The Teutonic father who whipped his boy for "think- 
ing damn" had no better judgment, but he had a truer 
philosophy. 

But isn't the little fellow sorry? Certainly, but not 
sorry because he yielded to the temptation of the for- 
bidden jam, but because the tell-tale smear on fingers 



THE FORCED TEAR. 105 

and on lips led to discovery. His repentance lias 
deepened at the vision of an uplifted slipper, a dark 
closet and a supperless bed. 

Aren't the older boys and girls sorry only when 
they have been found out, and sorry in proportion to 
the fear of punishment? Isn't the repentance meas- 
ured by the jam on the fingers instead of that in the 
stomach, and isn't the promise of reform shown in the 
trembling of the knees instead of in the throbbing of 
the heart? How few of us are really sorry for deeds 
and how many of us are only sorry for consequences? 

But we say we. are sorry. It was a mean thing you 
said about your neighbor, and when gossip whispered 
it in his ear you were sorry and you summoned your 
courage, mustered your manliness and asked his par- 
don. Then you fitted your head to a new halo and 
thought yourself a saint. But you thought an even 
meaner thing about him than you said, and you never 
felt a twinge of sorrow about that. You did him an 
injustice and you have never repented of it because 
he never knew it. You only feel real sorry when 
some one detects the smear of the jam on your lips. 

We veneer our piety and then try to pass it ofif for 
solid mahogany. We are not content with trying to 



106 THB FORCED TEAR. 

fool others, but we stupidly try to fool ourselves. We 
join with the great congregation in repeating, "For- 
give us our trespasses," and then fancy that we thus 
wipe out the past as easily as the schoolboy's sponge 
wipes from the slate the problem in which he has dis- 
covered a mistake. Our theology teaches us that there 
is a dark closet in the mysterious future and that our 
disobedience will there be punished, and it is the 
thought of this closet instead of the thought of the sin 
which gives to the voice a little more pleading and 
pathos as we say, "Forgive us our trespasses." We 
gather our frightened sobs and forced prayers and 
label them repentance and faith. 

When the heart looks through tearful eyes upon 
the loved face of one whom it would give the world 
to arouse from the long sleep to catch the sobbing 
whisper, "I'm sorry," then there is the true repent- 
ance which puts to shame the veneered pretense whose 
only purpose is to win favor or avoid penalty. But 
why wait until the ear is heavy, and the tongue hushed, 
and it is too late for the hearing of the sob of repent- 
ance and too late to voice the word of forgiveness? 

"I'm sorry" should not only be expressed by the 
voice, but by the hand. Repentance is not to be meas- 
ured alone by the number of sobs and vows. Tears 



THE FORCED TEAR. 107 

do not wash away wrongs. Restitution is the fruitage 
of repentance and barren, indeed, is the tree which 
does not at least blossom with the promise of such a 
fruitage. When the angel turns to your page in the 
great ledger and runs up the long column on the debit 
side and the balance is to be struck, how meager will 
seem your proffer of settlement, if all that you have to 
enter upon the credit side is a meaningless, forced ad- 
mission, "I'm sorry." 

But if the heart thrills as that of returned way- 
wardness, gazing pleadingly into the face of that love 
which casteth out all fear, wrongs will surely be made 
right, and the angel will gently close the record whis- 
pering, "Let it be forgiven and forgotten. " 



THE TWO FLAGS. 

"Tears for the dead and cheers for the living-." 

"I will take one of those flags, please. What is 
the price?" 

As the little woman in black placed on the counter 
the sum asked for, and passed out of the store she 
also passed out of the thought of the busy tradesman, 
but not out of the thought of the accounting angel, 
and the pen dipped in the tears of widows and orphans 
recorded the price paid for that flag. What were the 
paltry coins taken from the purse? The purchase of 
that flag was not made in the store nor the price paid 
over the counter. 

Her boy had been so eager to go, and yet it was 
so short a time since the golden chain was snapped 
and the father link dropped out, and now — no, the 
young patriot must yield to a mother's love and a 
widow's grief and stay to comfort and to help. 

"There are enough now, but when your country 
needs you, my boy, you shall go." 

The morning paper so eagerly scanned day by day 



THE TWO FLAGS. 109 

soon brought the call — "Six more men needed at once 
to fill the company." 

It came to mother and boy as the call of the Great 
Captain, and in the quiet of the little upper room, alone 
with the memory of her husband and the love of her 
boy she knelt before the Father and asked for wisdom 
and strength. Her prayer was answered and through 
her tears she could see the approving smile of the van- 
ished face as she said: 

"I will take one of those flags, please. What is 
the price?" 

God alone knows the price. 

Neighbors had flags fluttering from their porches 
in honor of those gone forth and in memory of those 
resting yonder, but the little woman in black, so long 
as she clung in her loneliness and love to the sacrifice 
instead of placing it on the altar, had shrank from 
seeming sacrilege, but now that she had given up her 
boy, her heart thrilled with pride as the new flag over 
her doorway waved graceful salute to the procession 
passing with wreaths and flowers to bedeck the resting 
places of other boys of other mothers. She had put 
out other flags on other Memorial days, but never be- 
fore had she a flag which was in truth her own. 

She had bought it herself. 

God alone knows the price. 



110 THE TWO FLAGS. 

"What did you pay for your flag?" 

Another flag, fluttering from another doorway of 
the home of another little woman in black. The flag 
is faded and worn, and the face which looks up to it 
so proudly is still more faded and worn. It has been 
many years since she won the right of hanging out the 
flag on Memorial day. The road had been very dusty 
and long, very lonesome and dreary, but someway she 
had been guided and sheltered, strengthened and 
cheered, and someway she had managed to pay the 
price of the flag. 

What did the faded old flag cost? 

More than the new? 

God alone knows the price. 

Two fragile forms in black, standing on neighbor- 
ing porches, watching the Memorial day procession 
pass, the younger thinking of tomorrow, the elder 
thinking of yesterday, and both thinking of home and 
country. Two little flags, one fresh in hope, the other 
faded in service, yet both catching kisses from the 
breezes, and smiles from the skies only to toss them 
gracefully on to the passers-by. On march citizens 
and soldiers, cadets and veterans, teachers and chil- 
dren — was there ever Memorial day in which future 
and past were so linked to the present? Was ever 
memory so quickened by hope? The wreaths and the 



THE TWO FLAGS. Ill 

chaplets are even more generously woven and more 
lovingly placed in honor of the heroes gone because 
of the heroes living and the heroes to come. 

The new flag and the old flag wave side by side. 

Each has been bought with a price. 

God alone knows what each has cost. 



WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 

"Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt, 
And ever3 T grin, so meny, draws one out." 

"Look out, grandpa/' 

Don't you remember how mad you were when 
the motor-man thus cautioned you as you jumped off 
the car? It was the first time that from the lips of a 
stranger came the verdict that the world had begun 
to look upon you as an old man. You knew 7 your hair 
was getting gray, but then in these days young men 
have gray hair. You knew your shoulders were more 
stooped than they used to be, but then that was due 
to your bending over the desk, and not to old age. 
You felt that your limbs were not so supple as when 
a boy, and you found yourself wheezing when you 
run to catch the car, but then you were not used to 
exercise. Old? Xo, no! Just in the prime of life, and 
the idea of that motor-man calling out — 

"Look out, grandpa." 

Then the first thing you did after getting into the 
house was to take a glance at the glass in the hat-rack 
to see if you really were getting so old as to make folks 



WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 113 

think you must be a grandpa. Yes, there were some 
wrinkles and the cheeks were not quite so plump, and 
that moustache had changed from a brownish curl to 
a grizzled bristling. As you turned with a frown into 
the living room an angel met you, and you looked into 
another mirror — a face of beautiful young woman- 
hood, a brighter, purer mirror than that in the hat- 
rack, and the vision of the years of tender care and 
responsive love passed before your eyes and you 
caught the truth that you were getting "old enough to 
be a grandpa, anyway. You paid the willing toll of 
a greeting kiss at this tall gateway of love, and passed 
on your way into the sitting room, and there sat a de- 
mure little woman, whose welcoming glance came 
through a pair of glasses, and memory held up another 
mirror in which you saw those brown eyes dancing 
with the girlish glee of the years gone by when she 
met you at the door all ready for the moonlight buggy 
ride, on the evening when love first found language, al- 
though it stammered badly. That was long ago, and 
as you bent to smooth her gray hair with a touch of 
love and the wrinkles of care lightened with the im- 
press of the home-coming kiss, you again saw in the 
mirror of the matron, that as she was growing old, so 
were you. 

But what matters it? 



114 WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 

The warning of the motor-man, the glance in the 
hat-rack, the presence of a young lady daughter, the 
reminding form of your ageing companion, the griz- 
zled moustache, the gray hair, the bowed shoulders, 
the faltering step, all these reminders of the fleet flight 
of the years, do not make you old, but — 

"Look out, grandpa." 

There's another mirror, truer than that in the hat- 
rack, clearer than the smiling face of maidenhood, 
more faithful than the reminding presence of the ma- 
ture matron, and as you seat yourself in your library 
chair, and try to interest yourself in the headlines of 
the evening paper, you find it falling listlessly on your 
knee while you glance into the mirror of inner con- 
sciousness, and look into your own heart to see if 
you are really growing old. 

Are there wrinkles on the heart? If not, you are 
still young, even if your hair is like snow, and your 
limbs like the shaking aspen. 

Don't look at your face to see if age is creeping 
on. Watch the heart, and beware of allowing care to 
make crow's feet there. 

Does the rollicking boy cause you to snap out a 
petulant reproof? Are the children making too much 
noise in the nursery? Is there no longer music in 
laughter? "There, there; run along; don't bother 



WATCHING THE WKINKLES. 115 

papa." Is the sound of your footfall in the doorway 
the signal for a sepulchral hush in the home? Can 
you no longer see any fun in a picnic? Does Christ- 
mas bring worry and Fourth of July a headache? Are 
you fretted when the dimpled hand pulls your paper 
aside and the prattling invitation comes so urgently, 
"Oh, do come, papa, and see what a nice tea party we 
are having?" Can you no longer listen to the lisping 
of childhood's confidence and the narration of the petty 
trials and joys of the playground? Then you are 
growing old, though your hair be raven, your form 
erect, and your vigor that of boyhood. 



"Look out, grandpa." 

There are stumblings worse than falling from the 
platform of a street car. There are limpings worse 
than those of the faltering foot. There are aches and 
pains worse than those of rheumatism. It matters 
little how time may tarnish the casket, or use may 
wear its hinges, so long as the jewel within keeps its 
brilliancy. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes summed up the philosophy 
of life when, instead of saying, ( Tm seventy years old 
today," he said, "I'm seventy years young today." 
Every birthday should see a man's heart younger. The 



116 WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 

only way to keep from growing old is to keep grow- 
ing young. The only time to begin growing young 
is before one begins to grow old. 
"Look out grandpa." 



"PATCHES AND OLD SHOES." 



"Brown is no artist. He only paints patches 
and old shoes." 



It was an art critic who spoke, and of course the 
hearer, who had been gaping in wondering admira- 
tion at one of Brown's pictures, felt so condemned as 
to be half inclined to plead guilty of being a fit subject 
for some feeble-minded institution. Of course the 
critic knew all about art and the gazer knew nothing, 
so he felt that he had made a fool of himself in admir- 
ing that picture, for what did he know r about art? 
Why, he couldn't draw a cow and get the tail on the 
right end, or find corners enough to put the four legs 
on. Yet here he was gaping at a picture by a man 
who, the art critic declares, "paints only patches and 
old shoes." 

He felt as ashamed of the words of praise which 
he had spoken about that picture as though he had 
spilled his coffee on a host's table cloth, and yet — why, 
of course it was only a picture of dirty bootblacks and 
ragged newsboys — of course there were patches and 
old shoes — but did you ever see anything so natural 



118 "patches and old shoes." 

in your life? Why, just see that fellow trying to walk 
on his hands while the other boys are watching him — 
see the different expressions on their faces — such 
showing of varied characters — and — why, you can see 
even the dust on the bottom of the boy's bare feet as 
they are poised in air while he is going through his 
gymnastic performance — wonderful — and yet — 
pshaw! It must be a daub because the art critic says 
so, and he knows. 

Then, with a mighty exertion of will, trembling 
with fear lest some other art critic may see him ad- 
miring this picture and look upon him as a fool, he 
walks away to try to look pleased as he gazes into the 
faces of the long row of madonnas, and forces a smile 
of attempted appreciation as he stands before a 
cracked and faded old canvas, nobody knows how 
many years old. Then -he begins to have that tired 
feeling, and he begins to wonder what folks find to 
enjoy in an art gallery. Then he wishes he was an 
art critic so as to be able to appreciate all these old 
masterpieces and enjoy them instead of paintings of 
patches and old shoes. 

Yet when the Sunday shoes are thrown into the 
corner and the slippered feet are resting on the fender, 
there come back happy memories of the faces of the 



"patches and old shoes." 119 

bootblacks and the newsboys, a touch of sympathy 
for the patches and the old shoes, and he smiles. Then 
the faces of the madonnas and the crackled canvas 
of the masterpieces come back in the flickering fire- 
light and he yawns and looks at the clock to see if 
it is not time to go to bed. 

"He paints patches and old shoes." 

Good for him, so long as he paints them well. The 
art critic is not around, and one can think what he 
wills without being sneered at. With most of us the 
greater part of life consists of patches and old shoes — 
imperfections and needs — so God bless the man who 
can touch the everyday life with the divinity of genius 
and the genius of divinity. We feel the need of that 
sympathy of the gifted pen or pencil which can give 
thought to the dust on the bottom of the bare foot as 
well as to the grandeur of the cloud crown of the 
mountain king. Most of us are children of the dust 
instead of monarchs of the mountains, and we like to 
feel that some mighty brain turns from the great prob- 
lems of state and from the great personages of court 
to give a thought to us and to our things, even if 
they are only patches and old shoes. 

Those who want to make the world better and 
happier must have a kindly thought and a helpful 



120 

hand for those whose lives are made up of patches and 
old shoes — of the common imperfections and the com- 
mon needs. While the learned bishops give wisdom 
of argument and eloquence of voice to the great 
doctrines of eternity, and the philosophers and sages 
are weighing the planets and expounding the laws of 
the universe, the people yawn and nod, and are only 
aroused by the whistle of the plowboy who stops to 
speak a word of sympathy for the little field mouse or 
to sing a song for the daisy. Then the world listens 
and loves, although he only paints patches and old 
shoes. 

The truest creed is the simplest, the purest religion 
the most humble, the greatest temple that of the for- 
est, the greatest preacher he who speaks not to the 
head but the heart. Gilmore's great army of musi- 
cians, crowding the broad stage and vying with each 
other in swelling the great wave of harmonies sweep- 
ing through the spacious amphitheater seemed to be 
filling the world with music and crow r ding out all other 
sounds, and yet high above all w r as heard the clear, 
sw r eet note of a canary, which had found its way into 
the great building and perched itself among the arches 
of the dome. The contest between art and nature 
seemed an uneven one. Only a little bird whose life 
could be crushed by a touch and yet its voice so clear 



"patches and old shoes." 121 

and penetrating could be heard above all the clash of 
cymbals, the clangor of trumpets and the beating of 
drums, and the people turned their faces from the 
band to the bird, and love crept into the smile, for the 
song of nature was sweeter than the song of art. 

Let the critics sneer at him who paints only patches 
and old shoes. So long as the people love him what 
matters it? So long as the humble folks, who know 
little about books or easels, are made to feel the help- 
ful, happy touch of genius, and are gently led to better, 
brighter living, what matters it what the critics say? 
Let them enjoy life in their way, and let us alone while 
we get a little pleasure looking at the barefooted boy 
trying to walk on his hands. Let us be undisturbed 
while we feel the throb of kindly sympathy for those 
who struggle even to win applause from fellows who, 
like ourselves, are wearing patches and old shoes. 

The critics, the bishops, the philosophers, have all 
had to recognize the patches and old shoes in order 
to get recognition for themselves. We children could 
get no idea of w r hat Our Father was like until his face 
took on the features of a man. The church tried to 
tell us about God, but we kept stumbling through the 
prayer-book and tremblingly fearing lest we should 
get near to God or God should get near to us. Then 



122 

the church called art to its aid and genius placed on 
the canvas the beautiful face of a woman, and the 
world in joy cried out "Mother," and began to cuddle 
up to divinity as something to be loved and not feared. 
Then a babe was placed in her arms and the world 
gazed in adoration at loving simplicity and the mys- 
teries began to float away like the cloud before the 
sunshine. God has inspired all his great sons of earth 
to bend down to where the patches and the old shoes 
are, to study them, to sympathize with them, to lift 
them out of the dust and discouragement, to touch the 
common failures and the common needs of a common 
humanity with the genius of love, and to give them 
a place on the walls of the gallery alongside of the 
madonnas and the crackled old masterpieces. 



KOTCHED ON A NAIL." 



Little Tommy sliding- down the roof,. — "Oh, 
Lord, save me. Don't let me slide off the — never 
mind. Lord; I kotched on a nail.*' 



Why smile? Doesn't Little Tommy have much 
the same sort of a religious faith that Big Tommy has? 
Aren't we all ready to call upon the Lord when we 
feel ourselves sliding down, and aren't we all ready 
to forget all about the Lord when we "kotch on a 
nail?" We save up our religion for a rainy day, and 
we get very pious when the skies threaten with storm, 
but when the sun bursts forth again we lay aside our 
piety with our umbrella. We forget to say our prayers 
if we're feeling well, but when the pangs of pain get 
hold upon us we seize the horns of the altar and beg 
for divine help. It's our Little Tommy's religion 
grown to man's size, so why smile at the boy's prayer 
on the roof? 

It is so easy to sneer at the church because it is a 
mere fashionable club without any heart in it, so easy 
to look upon the preacher as one who is simply "try- 
ing to hold his job" and who is working ''for what 
there is in it," the same as any other man, but when 



124 u kotche:d on a nail." 

the shadows lengthen in the sick room and the ticking 
of the clock seems so slow, and there is a longing for 
the morning and yet a dread of what that morning 
will bring, then the soft footfall of the messenger as 
he comes up the stairway, bringing tidings of sympa- 
thy and hope, seems like the approach of an angel, and 
there is as sweet music in his prayer as in that with 
which tender motherhood by her loving lullaby coos 
the tired child to cuddle down and forget the troubles 
which are breaking its little heart. In our grief w r e 
listen to the message to w T hich w r e gave a dull ear 
when the w r orld was laughing and we were laughing 
with it. The preacher is no longer one who is simply 
"trying to hold his job" and who is working "for what 
there is in it;" the church is no longer a mere fashion- 
able club with no heart in it, the prayer is no longer a 
mere form, God is no longer a myth, when one finds 
himself slipping and sliding down and down, to what 
fate he knows not. 

"Never mind, Lord* I kotched on a nail." 
With the danger past and the fear gone, one feels 
that he can get along very well without any help on 
the part of the Lord. It is the same human simplicity 
which sends the little maiden crying to mother when 
dolly is broken, and causes the little head to bury its 
curls and its sorrows in the loving lap, and when the 



125 

grief is over and dolly is herself again causes mother 
to be forgotten in the ringing laugh of the playground. 
It is when the ball is lost or the sled broken that the 
rollicking boy turns his thoughts to the need of help 
from father's pocketbook, but when the sport can be 
resumed father is forgotten in the frolic. We larger 
children keep on with our play much like the smaller 
ones, though our games are different. It is only when 
our dolls are broken and our playthings lost that we 
cry out for the motherly tenderness of divine, comfort 
and the fatherly strength of divine help. 

We larger children are ready enough to' remember 
Our Father when we need him, and ready enough to 
forget him when he needs us. Xeeds us? What need 
can be felt by one who is able to send the mightiest 
planets whirling through infinite space with the ease 
with which the boy rolls his marbles on the play 
ground? What help can be given such a Father, with 
all powers and pleasures of all worlds at his command, 
by a childish little weakling so foolish as to call a patch 
of playground the world and so feeble as not to be 
able to mend even a broken doll or to find a lost play- 
thing? 

The little one whose dimpled hands hold forth the 
broken doll, and whose lisping voice sobs for help, 



126 

needs mother, but mother needs her. Those tiny 
fingers cannot lift the pots and kettles and prepare the 
meal, but they can tuck the clinging flannel about 
baby sister's soft neck with a gentler touch of comfort 
and cuddle than can the stronger hands which lift the 
heavier burdens of life, and can give more restful 
swinging to the cradle, and voice a sweeter crooning 
of dreamland. The weary mother, whose stronger 
arms have to do the sweeping, needs the helpfulness 
of little daughter to do the dusting. There are mes- 
sages which the rollicking boy with his nimble feet 
can do more quickly than father. There are chores 
w r hich he can do even better than father. Each needs 
the other. 

Doesn't the Father need all of his children as surely 
as all of his children need him? We think only of 
our broken dolls and lost playthings, and forget that 
we are able to give as well as get, to help as well as 
be helped. There are errands which the Father can- 
not do as well as we; there are worried sisters who 
need comfort, there are tired brothers who need rest, 
there are smiles to be scattered and songs to be sung, 
there are flowers to be gathered, and weeding to be 
done, and while the divine strength may be needed 
for lifting the heavier burdens, for providing for the 
greater wants, yet we should busy our hands in other 



"kotched ox a nail." 127 

ways than holding our own broken dolls, and busy our 
feet with other errands than searching for our own 
lost playthings. In the great family there are other 
children and we can do for them what the Father can- 
not do. They not only need us but he needs us — 
needs us to wipe off the dust whirled into the home 
from the busy highway, to deliver messages from the 
Father, to help him care for the great family which 
he loves so dearly. Yes, we need him, but he 
needs us. 

But we forget until we find the feet slipping and 
see the danger ahead. Then we cry out. Then when 
we "kotch on a nail," and fear is gone, we forget our 
need of the Father, and still more often do we forget 
his need for us. We feel the air thrill with the sweet 
voice telling us that "Inasmuch as ye have done it 
unto one of the least of these ye have done it unto 
me," and yet we forget that while he is able to pour 
forth showers of blessing upon his thirsty children yet 
he needs the help of a human hand to .press the cup 
to the parched lips and the sound of a human voice 
to bid the thirstv child drink. 



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